!    I    I 


/\    STOftY    OF 


BY 

JOHN   TALBOT   SMITH 


AUTHOR    OF 

BROTHER  AZARIAS,"  "SOLITARY  ISLAND, 
HIS  HONOR  THE  MAYOR,"  "A  WOMA 
OF  CULTURE,"  ETC. 


THIRD   EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

WILLIAM    H.  YOUNG  &   COMPANY 
31  BARCLAY  STREET 

1897 


COPYRIGHT,  1892 

BY 
JOHN    TALBOT   SMITH 


All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Chapter             I.— The  Pilot's  Son,  i 

"                 II. — Mr.  Grady  Admired  the  French,  12 

"               III.— The  Senior  Partner,                       -  20 

"                IV. — A  Rehearsal,             ...  29 

"                 V.— The  Letter  from  Texas,        -        -  38 

"                VI. — Vengeance  Delayed,        -  47 

"              VII.— After  the  Play,      ....  56 

"            VIII.— The  Pilot's  Bargain,        -        -  69 

"               IX.— Quiet  Times,                  ...  78 

"                 X.— Tim  Grady  in  Texas,       -  85 

"               XI.— An  Odd  Letter,    ....  91 

"             XII.— A  Change  of  Heart,          -        -  103 

"            XIII.— Winthrop's  Temptation,      -        -  112 

"            XIV.— The  Steamer's  Fate,         -        -  117 

XV.—  Amed^e! 129 

"            XVI.— A  Texas  Steer,          ...  141 

XVII.— Banished, 153 

XVIII.— A  Climax,        ....  161 

"            XIX. — Winthrop  in  Favor,      -        -        -  175 

"             XX.— A  Lawn  Party,  184 

XXL- The  Wedding,       ....  199 

XXII.— A  Revelation,           ...  210 


2088295 


ii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Chapter  XXIII.— At  Rest, 219 

"  XXIV.— Rejected !  ....  230 
"  XXV.— Open  Confession,  -  -  -239 
"  XXVI.— The  Fair,  ....  250 
"  XXVII.— AmedSe's  Daughter,  -  -  -  273 


SARANAC. 

CHAPTER  I. 
THE    PILOT'S   SON. 

In  Saranac  the  world  was  celebrating  New  Year's 
Day,  or  as  the  villagers  themselves  would  call  it  le 
Jour  de  Van,  The  day  of  all  the  year ;  and  because  of 
a  certain  custom  connected  with  this  celebration  a 
difficulty  had  sprung  up  in  the  household  of  Mrs. 
Sullivan,  at  five  o'clock  of  the  morning,  which  brought 
trouble  to  the  hearts  of  her  two  grandchildren.  Sara- 
nac was  a  border  town,  with  a  mixed  population, 
American  by  instinct  and  training,  French  Canadian, 
Irish,  English,  and  a  mixture  of  all  three  at  times  in 
the  matters  of  blood  and  sentiment.  Hence  there 
were  all  sorts  of  customs  and  traditions  and  senti- 
ments in  Saranac,  and  all  sorts  of  difficulties  springing 
from  them ;  and  one  of  these  had  intruded  on  Mrs. 
Sullivan  on  the  unluckiest  day  of  all  the  year  for  such 
a  thing  to  happen.  Because  this  good  woman  held  it 
as  an  axiom  almost,  that  the  troubles  of  New  Year's 
Day  are  sure  to  repeat  themselves  daily  the  entire 
year.  She  was  therefore  careful  to  make  the  festival 
one  of  unbounded  joy,  to  banish  all  words,  thoughts, 
and  deeds  smacking  of  sorrow.  It  was  a  heroic  effort 
for  a  reminiscent  mind,  but  success  had  so  often  re- 
warded the  effort  as  to  make  it  easy  in  the  end. 

Mrs.  Sullivan's  eldest  daughter  one  day  married  a 


young  neighbor  with  French  blood  and  a  French 
name.  This  event  had  occurred  eleven  years  before 
the  story  opens,  the  young  man  was  now  dead  a  year, 
and  the  daughter  had  returned  with  her  two  children 
to  her  mother's  house.  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  annoyed  at 
one  feature  of  these  incid  .-nts.  It  was  not  only  her 
daughter  who  came  home,  but  also  her  daughter's 
French  children,  with  pretty  French  names  and 
fashions,  the  Sullivan  blood  prominent  but  ornamen- 
ted so  daintily  as  to  stir  her  wrath  daily  against 
"  Frinch  notions."  The  children  and  their  mother 
spoke  excellent  French,  and  it  seemed  to  the  grand- 
mother that  the  Sullivan  had  been  extinguished  in  the 
Lajeunesse. 

"Afther  fightin'  the  Frinch  for  thirty  years,"  she 
exclaimed  to  a  friend,  "  here  I  have  a  houseful  o'  thim. 
Wirra,  to  think  I'd  ever  see  the  day  whin  wan  o'  me 
name  'ud  be  a  grandmother  to  Frinchmen!" 

The  position  however  was  not  hopeless,  and  grand- 
ma's severity  was  never  called  out  except  to  repress 
or  condemn  "Frinch  notions"  in  her  children.  Her 
harshness  on  this  point  gave  Remi  and  Elise  a  dread 
of  offending  her.  And  when  New  Year's  morning 
came  and  it  was  necessary  to  ask  grandma's  blessing 
according  to  Canadian  custom  the  first  serious  diffi- 
culty of  life  in  grandma's  home  presented  itself.  They 
had  always  received  papa's  blessing  on  that  happy 
day,  and  papa  before  he  died  had  commanded  them 
to  ask  it  thenceforth  from  Grandma  Sullivan.  It  was 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  down  in  the  kitchen 
they  could  hear  her  clattering  the  dishes  briskly  while 
they  stood  in  their  white  night-dresses  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs  talking. 


"  You  go  first  and  ask  her,"  said  Remi  in  French, 
"  and  you  can  have  my  sled  all  day." 

"  You're  a  boy,  you  ought  to  go  first,"  said  Elise, 
not  caring  much  to  bargain. 

"  Let  us  not  go  at  all,"  he  ventured. 

"  But  papa,  you  forget,  Remi,"  said  Elise  tearfully. 

"I  don't  forget,  but  what's  the  use  of  asking 
when  there'll  be  a  big  fuss  made  and  no  good  come 
of  it."  . 

"  Well,  you  take  my  hand  and  let  us  go  down  even," 
said  Elise,  "  and  I'll  ask  her." 

"All  right.  But  mind— I  run  the  minute  she  says 
'  that's  another  Frinch  notion.' " 

They  giggled  a  little  over  grandma's  brogue,  and 
then  stole  softly  dowa  the  stairs.  Only  a  vivid  re- 
membrance of  papa's  command  prevented  a  stampede 
from  the  door.  There  was  a  long  and  dreadful  pause 
outside  the  kitchen. 

"  I'm  going  back  to  bed,"  said  Remi,  but  Elise 
threw  open  the  door  and  both  little  figures  bowed 
very  sweetly  to  grandma  as  they  wished  her  a  happy 
New  Year  and  kissed  her  and  showed  their  gifts  from 
mamma  and  Uncle  Hugh.  Then  grandma  being  in 
a  good  humor  the  little  diplomats  knelt  down  at  her 
knees  and  Elise  said  with  her  heart  in  her  mouth : 

'•  Please,  grandma,  give  us  your  benediction." 

"  Me  what,"  said  the  astonished  lady. 

"  Your  blessing,  grandma,"  said  Remi. 

"  Another  Frinch  notion,"  snapped  Mrs.  Sullivan. 
"  Yez  have  me  tired  wid  'em.  Shure,  haven't  ye  me 
blessin'  mornin',  noon,  and  night  the  year  round,  and 
why  do  ye  be  wantin'  it  New  Year's  Day  above  anny 
other  time  ?  " 


"  Papa  told  us  to  come  to  you,"  said  Elise,  holding 
Remi  so  tightly  that  he  could  not  move. 

"  Well,  he  had  some  sinse  if  he  was  Frinch,"  said 
the  old  lady,  "  the  Lord  rest  his  sowl  this  day !  It's 
not  refusin'  his  orphans  annythm'  I'd  be,  an'  the  whole 
house  is  yours  while  ye're  in  it.  But  I'll  have  no 
Frinch  notions  here — " 

"  Please,  grandma,"  sniffled  Elise. 

"An*  to  day  the  first  of  the  year  to  begin  id  in 
Frinch  style — I  wouldn't  do  it  for  an  angel,  glory  be 
to  God,  let  alone  a  Lajeunesse  " 

"  To-morrow's  just  as  good,"  said  Remi. 

"  But  papa  said  to-day,"  and  Elise  puckered  up  her 
features  for  a  good  cry  when  grandma  picked  her  up 
and  kissed  the  wrinkles  away,  saying  : 

"  Don't  cry  on  New  Year's  day,  acushla,  ye  can 
take  me  binedictlon,  or  whatever  ye  call  it  -  it's  not 
much  good  anyhow— an'  don't  have  a  wet  eye  or  a 
cross  word  for  any  living  sowl  to-day." 

And  grandma  went  on  then  to  scold  th'-nu  for  not 
being  more  like  the  Sullivans,  and  to  praise  them  for 
remembering  their  father's  wishes,  and  to  describe  the 
way  her  county  in  Ireland  celebrated  New  Year's  day 
without  anything  French  or  Protestant  about  it,  only 
the  pure,  sweet  Irish  and  Catholic  way,  which  was 
better  than  any  other  in  the  whole  world,  until  Elise 
nearly  cried  again  with  grief  that  her  name  was  not 
Sullivan  and  she  had  not  been  born  in  Ireland.  But 
the  blessing  of  grandma  was  enough  to  make  the  day 
bright  for  the  children,  and  they  forgot  their  own 
names  in  the  joy  and  fun  of  the  festival. 

"  As  the  day  began,  so  it  will  end,"  said  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van to  her  daughter,  in  describing  how  her  blessing 


had  been  given.  "  It  s  a  Frinch  day  for  this  house  — 
God  help  us.  I  never  see  the  like  of  it  afore  -  it'll 
be  Frinch  here,  an1  Frinch  there  —  where'll  ye  put  'em 
all,  Julia,  I'd  like  to  know,  and  yer  relatives  comin' 
to  see  ye,  Tony  Christmas,  and  Bony  Batcheese.  an' 
all  the  other  beautiful  names  that  belongs  to  'em." 

"  See  here,  mother,"  said  Hugh,  "  you  want  to  be 
careful  how  you  step  out  to-day.  This  is  the  day  for 
making  up  among  old  enemies,  and  as  sure  as  Mrs. 
Bobeau  meets  you  she'll  speak  to  you,  and  perhaps 
kiss  you  right  in  the  street." 

Mrs.  Sullivan's  indignation  at  the  mere  mention  of 
such  a  scene  was  too  great  for  words,  and  lest  it  might 
really  come  to  pass  she  hurried  away  to  Mass  as  the 
first  bell  was  ringing,  and  so  escaped  a  reconciliation. 
The  snow  was  heavy  on  the  ground.  The  sun  did 
not  honor  the  day  with  his  appearance.  The  great 
Lake  Champlain,  on  which  Saranac  stands,  stretched 
away  for  miles  in  its  covering  of  snow  and  ice,  with 
black  shores  and  grim  mountains  around.  A  man 
stood  in  the  street  reading  a  letter  as  Mrs.  Sullivan 
passed  by. 

"  'Appy  Noo  Yir,"  he  said.  "  I  s'pose  Cap'n  Sulli- 
van will  be  at  church  to  day  ?" 

"  The  same  to  you,  Misther  Rush ;  I  hope  he  will," 
said  Mrs.  Sullivan.  "  It's  where  every  Christian  ought 
to  be." 

"  If  I  don't  see  Mm  this  mornin',  tell  'im  I'll  be 
round  to  night  to  'ave  a  talk  with  'im." 

"  I  will,  sor,"  with  chilling  dignity,  and  under  her 
breath,  "  Of  course  ye'll  be  round,  ye'll  all  be  round 
to  see  the  Lajeunesses,  but  you  won't  see  me,  good 
man,  if  I  can  help  it." 


It  was  really  a  French  Canadian  day,  however,  and 
Mrs.  Sullivan  found  it  hard  to  withstand  the  hearty 
and  polite  manner  of  the  people.  The  churchgoers 
were  out  in  force  before  she  got  half  way  up  the 
street.  They  came  in  threes  and  fives  and  tens, 
whole  family  groups  of  three  generations,  the  young 
ones  laughing  ever  their  awkward  attempts  to  get  the 
day's  benediction  from  their  parents,  the  old  ones 
blocking  the  way  with  vigorous  handshaking  of 
friends.  The  streets  of  the  town  looked  festive  with 
the  movement  of  the  cheerful  procession  which  Mrs. 
Sullivan  unconsciously  headed  on  the  way  to  the 
church.  A  few  neighbors  tried  to  overtake  her  in 
vain.  By  this  behavior  she  escaped  the  dreaded 
congratulations,  and  once  inside  the  church  she 
was  secure  for  two  hours.  Even  here  the  French 
idea  pursued  her.  The  green  trimmings  on  the  walls 
were  put  on  in  Canadian  style,  and  the  priest  preach- 
ed a  French  sermon  to  please  the  majority  of  his 
people,  who,  nevertheless,  understood  and  spoke  Eng- 
lish well. 

"  I'll  be  talkin'  the  language  meself  before  I  get 
home,"  said  Mis.  Sullivan  at  this  last  pinch  to  her 
feelings,  and  in  a  kind  of  despair  she  went  out  with  the 
crowd,  and  was  shaken  and  pushed  and  laughed  at 
and  talked  to  almost  to  her  o  ?n  door  where  Mrs. 
Bobeau  was  waiting  for  her  to  put  the  seal  on  the 
degradation  of  the  Sullivans  by  kissing  her  and  asking 
her  to  be  a  friend  once  more. 

"  And  this  is  only  the  beginning"  she  sighed. 

The  door  bell  was  ringing  constantly  all  the  after- 
noon, and  from  the  parlor  came  a  steady  flow  of  talk 
and  laughing  and  the  clinking  of  glasses  with  enough 


French  conversation  to  exasperate  her.  Mrs.  Lajeu- 
nesse  and  Captain  Hugh  Sullivan  did  the  honors, 
and  seemed  to  like  it.  They  tried  to  coax  her  into 
the  room,  but  her  steady  reply  was,  "  I'm  Irish  Let 
the  Frinch  celebrate  without  me."  And  they  did, 
quite  used  to  the  polite  indisposition  which  Mrs.  Sul- 
livan suffered  from  on  New  Year's  Day.  But  the 
night  being  come,  the  townspeople  went  each  to  his 
own  tea-table,  and  the  home  was  left  to  its  own.  The 
lamps  were  lighted  and  the  curtains  drawn,  and  Mrs. 
Sullivan  had  the  floor. 

"  Now,  mother,''  said  the  Captain  cheerfully,  "  let 
us  hear  how  you  celebrated  in  the  County  Down  or 
Limerick  on  this  glorious  day." 

"  I  was  born  in  the  County  Limerick,"  said  his 
mother,  with  dignity,  "and  rared  in  the  County 
Down." 

"  All  Ireland,"  said  Remi,  "  isn't  as  big  as  New 
York  State." 

"Hush,  Remi,"  said  mamma,  in  a  tone  of  warn 
ing. 

"The  more  shame  to  New  York  State,"  said  Mrs. 
Sullivan,  "  to  let  a  little  island  bate  it  all  to  pieces. 
The  State  is  good  enough.  I  can't  find  any  fault  on'y 
wid  the  people  in  it." 

The  bell  rang.  "  Ye  might  be  in  Ireland  twenty 
New  Year's  Days,"  she  continued,  "  an'  the  bell  on 
the  door  wouldn't  ring  as  often  as  this  afternoon 
jist." 

"  Because  why  ?"  said  the  Captain.  "  Were  there 
no  bells  ?" 

"  Bekase  why,  sor  ?  Bekase  the  people  had  too 
much  sense  to  go  round  bell-ringing  anny  day." 


8 

"  Captain  LaRoche  to  see  Uncle  Hugh,"  bawled 
Rerui  from  the  parlor  door. 

"  He  towld  me  he  was  comin'  to  see  ye,"  said  Mrs. 
Sullivan,  "  but  I  forgot  all  about  it,  I  declare.  Let 
him  walk  right  in,  child.  Wan  captain  more  won't 
spoil  the  broth." 

LaRoche  was  a  swarthy  lake  sailor  of  sixty,  griz- 
zled and  weather-beaten,  but  good  for  twenty  years 
more  of  the  peaceful,  healthful  life  which  his  kind  en- 
joys on  Lake  Champlain.  He  bowed  with  his  never- 
failing  French  courtesy  to  each  person  present,  and 
when  the  greetings  and  inquiries  were  done,  handed 
Hugh  a  letter. 

"  See  what  you  can  make  out  of  that,"  he  said. 

The  children  took  possession  of  him  in  a  moment, 
while  Hugh  was  reading,  and  wormed  a  short  story 
out  of  him  concerning  the  great  storms  on  the  lake 
and  the  great  boats  that  had  been  wrecked.  Then 
Hugh  looked  up  from  his  letter. 

"I  never  well  understood," he  said,  "just  how  your 
son  got  into  trouble,  and  so  perhaps  I  don't  see  what 
this  letter  means." 

"  You  were  a  boy,  Cap'n,"  said  LaRoche,  "  w'en 
Amedee  got  hisself  into  a  mess  he'll  never  git  out  of, 
I  s'pose.  Your  mother  knows  about  it.  He  was  a 
smart  boy,  Amedee,  too  smart  for  his  own  good.  He 
worked  for  Winthrop  &  Co.,  as  clerk,  and  took  to 
drinkin'  an'  carryin'  on.  That's  wot  brought  him 
low,  Cap'n.  He  took  to  helpin'  hisself  at  last  of  their 
money.  W'en  it  was  found  out  he  run  away  an'  I 
hain't  seen  him  sence." 

**  There  was  an  awful  row  over  it,  wasn't  there  ?" 
said  Rcmi,  deeply  interested. 


»'  No,  'twas  very  quite.  All  I  knowed  about  it  was 
when  Howard  DeLaunay  come  tome  and  told  me 
about  it.  Amedec  was  gone  then  with  three  thous- 
and dollars  spent  of  their  money.  Winthrop  wanted  to 
follow  him,  but  DeLaunay  saie  no.  All  they  could  do 
was  to  jail  him.  What  was  the  use  o'  that  when  the 
money  was  gone.  The  story  got  out,  o'  course,  and  made 
it  pretty  hard  for  me  an1  the  ol'  woman.  She  hain't 
ever  quite  got  over  it.  He  was  all  we  had  to  home, 
an'  we  couldn't  make  up  our  minds  to  losin'  our  boy 
that  way.  We  never  calc'lated  on  it." 

"No,  God  help  ye,  nor  would  anny  wan,"  said 
sympathetic  Mrs.  Sullivan.  "  An'  have  ye  never  heard 
of  him?" 

"  That's  a  letter  from  him,"  pointing  to  the  letter 
which  Hugh  had  just  read.  "  He  writes  onct  in  a 
while.  He  seems  to  be  a  wild  sort  of  boy  yit,  an' 
stays  mostly  in  Texas.  What  do  you  make  of  it, 
Cap'n  ?" 

"  I'll  think  over  it,"  said  Hugh  carelessly.  The  old 
man  folded  the  letter  sadly  and  seemed  disappointed. 
At  a  sign  from  Hugh  the  members  of  the  family, 
one  after  another,  excused  themselves  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  did  not  return.  The  two  men  were 
alone  together,  although  LaRoche  did  not  yet  per- 
ceive it.  He  had  great  respect  for  the  opinion  of 
young  Sullivan,  on  whose  boat  he  had  been  for 
many  years  a  wheelsman. 

"  Your  son  seems  to  think,"  said  Hugh,  "  that  he 
did  not  take  as  much  money  as  they  say." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  thought  when  I  read  that 
letter  ?"  and  the  old  man's  eyes  looked  savage  an  in- 
stant. 


10 

"  Better  not  say  it,  LaRoche,  until  you  know  more 
about  it " 

"  Well,  look  at  the  words,  Cap'n."  He  unfolded 
the  letter  and  read  slowly  as  if  he  were  spelling  each 
word: 

"  I  met  Jack  Wilson  out  here  not  long  ago,  and 
heard  all  about  you,  and  the  stories  they  tell  of  me. 
Someone  is  lying,  father,  when  it  is  said  I  stole 
over  three  thousand  dollars.  As  there  is  a  God  above 
me  I  never  took  over  two  hundred  from  the  safe,  and 
that  I  no  more  intended  to  steal  than  if  I  took  De- 
Launay's  hat  for  an  hour's  walk.  Put  down  those 
stories,  father,  every  time." 

"  W'en  I  read  that  letter,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I'll 
tell  you  wot  I  thought.  My  boy  was  al'ays  hones'  as 
the  day.  I  never  knew 'im  to  steal.  If  he  hadn't 
gone  so  quick,  I'd  'a  spent  my  las'  cent  to  save  'im. 
W'en  I  read  that  letter  I  thought  someone  did  that 
stealin'  an'  put  it  on  to  my  boy.  They  made  'im  be- 
lieve he  took  it,  or  that  he  took  some,  an'  sent  'im  off 
in  a  hurry  like  a  real  thief,  and  left  us — 'is  mother  an' 
me — him  a  poor,  brokeup  thing  in  Texas 

His  confused  speech  ended  in  a  low,  violent  sob. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  you  can  do,"  said  Hugh.  "  I 
guess  you  had  better  let  me  do  it.  You're  not  fit 
just  now  to  do  anything  with  such  an  idea  as  that. 
It's  impossible.  But  I'll  look  up  the  circumstances 
that  happened  after  Amedee  ran  away.  I'll  send  him 
a  good  account  of  them,  and  ask  him  to  send  us  his 
story.  Then  you  can  see  how  foolish  this  fancy  is.  I 
wish  it  was  different.  But  it  isn't.  You'd  better  be- 
lieve that " 

"  I  mus'  believe  it,"  said  LaRoche, " until  the  other 


II 

side  has  its  say.  You  can  look  after  it,  Hugh.  You're 
edicated,  an'  know  jest  how  to  go  about  it.  It's  fifteen 
years,  you  know.  The  ol'  woman  is  crying  at  home 
now,  for  it's  fifteen  New  Years  she  hasn't  seen  him. 
She  has  no  hopes  to  see  him  ever  any  more." 

"  Are  you  going  to  write  to  him  soon  ?" 

"  He  won't  let  us  write  often.  Onct  a  year,  some- 
times twice  he  sends  us  a  new  address.  He's  al'ays 
movin'.  He  sent  us  a  new  address  this  time,  Osboroe, 
Texas." 

"  Then  leave  all  to  me,"  said  Hugh  as  he  attended 
the  old  man  to  the  door  and  bade  him  good  night.  He 
stood  there  thinking  a  few  minutes  over  the  passage 
in  the  letter.  It  might  mean  a  good  deal,  and  it 
probably  meant  no  more  than  the  defiant  scrawl  of  a 
ruined  adventurer,  anxious  to  hold  some  place  still  in 
the  esteem  of  his  wretched  parents.  The  common 
report  of  Amedee  La  Roche  had  made  him  a  fast 
young  man,  not  bad  but  foolish,  who  had  spent  all 
the  money  his  hands  could  touch,  and  for  his  father's 
sake  was  spared  the  agony  of  pursuit  and  the  shame 
of  a  prison.  Hugh  Sullivan  had  never  before  heard 
his  father  speak  of  him,  and  he  was  astonished  to  see 
how  firm  had  been  the  recent  hope  that  his  son  might 
yet  prove  himself  an  innocent  and  wronged  man.  This 
could  be  done  only  by  proving  some  very  respectable 
people  respectable  rascals,  which  in  the  present  case 
would  be  the  most  daring  and  hopeless  task  any  man 
could  set  himself. 

"  Well,  God  help  him,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan  when 
they  were  in  the  sitting-room  again,  "  he  has  the 
father's  heart  and  the  father's  sorra,  even  if  he  is  a 
Frinchman," 


CHAPTER  II. 

MR.  GRADY  ADMIRED  THE  FRENCH. 

The  next  morning  asnow-and-wind  storm  had  taken 
lodgings  in  Saranac.  There  was  already  a  hard-packed 
covering  of  snow  on  the  ground.  The  contributions 
of  January  and  February  were  yet  to  come,  and  the 
first  came  generously.  A  west  wind  sent  every  snow- 
flake  to  the  ground  like  a  bullet  from  the  gun  ;  where 
it  attacked  a  street  or  a  lonely  building  it  sent  the 
frightened  snow  dashing  into  the  air  against  itself,  and 
played  all  the  pranks  of  a  mad  artist  with  a  picture. 
In  an  hour  Saranac  was  partly  effaced  and  altogether 
defaced.  Streets  were  filled  up,  houses  shrouded 
from  peak  to  foundation  stone  with  daubs  of  snow,  and 
sight  of  the  world  limited  to  a  twenty-foot  circle.  The 
wind  roared  and  shrieked  without  a  second's  abace- 
ment.  A  storm  in  Saranac,  for  a  really  harmless  and 
beneficent  creature,  was  as  wild  as  a  Texan  broncho, 
and  while  it  held  possession  of  the  town  ended  all  oc- 
cupations except  those  which  must  go  on  in  spite  of 
death  or  weather.  It  stayed  three  days  and  often 
five,  during  which  time  Saranac  fo^k  ate  apples,  drank 
cider,  cracked  butternuts,  ar.d  told  stories  in  an  ad- 
mirable, never-out  of  fashion  way. 

Mr.  Tim  Grady,  who  was  a  Saranac  philosopher  of 
eminence,  and  so  many  things  besides  that  only  along 
history  might  detail  them,  always  found  a  strong 
reason  for  vis  ting  Mrs.  Sullivan  in  stormy  weather; 


13 

not  only  because  her  cider  had  a  Celtic  sting  and  her 
apples  a  Limerick  flavor,  but  chiefly  because  Mrs. 
Sullivan  was  a  skeptic  as  to  Mr.  Grady's  learning  and 
had  to  be  convinced  by  illustration  and  overthrown  by 
argument  oftener  than  more  credulous  people.  No 
sooner  was  the  old  gentleman  prevented  by  bad 
weather  from  his  usual  tour  of  the  town  than  he 
crossed  the  garden  and  knocked  at  Mrs.  Sullivan's 
kitchen  door,  carrying  in  his  hand  the  latest  news 
from  Limerick,  and  in  his  mind  a  few  intellectual 
fireworks  to  knock  the  skepticism  of  the  old  lady 
dumb.  Some  said  this  and  others  said  that  concern- 
ing these  visits.  There  was  nothing  to  be  said,  how- 
ever, but  what  this  story  shall  discover,  the  return  of 
Mrs.  Lajeunesse  to  her  mother's  home  having  blighted 
every  hope  that  Tim  Grady  might  have  entertained 
towards  his  countrywoman.  He  was  in  the  kitchen 
paring  an  apple  as  early  as  eight  o'clock  that  stormy 
morning.  Hugh  was  still  abed.  The  children  were 
playing  in  the  parlor  and  chattering  like  birds  in 
French,  while  Mrs.  Sullivan  listened  in  pleased  won- 
der to  the  fluent  tongues. 

"Isn't  it  wondherful,  Misther  Grady,"  said  she, 
"how  they  can  undherstand  wan  another,  talkin' 
away  wid  such  gibberish  I  an'  thin  in  a  minute  they 
turn  to  English  and  away  they  go  as  fast  in  that  as 
ever  I  could." 

Mr.  Grady  listened  to  this  simple  wonderment  with 
a  smile  of  pity  widening  his  wide  mouth,  and  a  criti- 
cal glance  for  the  pulp  of  the  pared  apple  in  his 
hand. 

"'Tis  as  you  say,  Mrs.  Soollivan,"  he  replied,  "  but 
if  ye'll  remimber  Patrick  Sweeny,  that  was  brought 


14 

up  two  miles  from  your  own  father's  house  in  Kilbeg 
— his  mother  was  a  Sheehy  of  Youghal — an'  his  father 
sint  him  for  twelve  years  to  Paris  to  study,  why, 
woman  dear,  he  had  seven  languages  jist  as  pat  to  his 
tongue  as  butter  to  buttermilk." 

"  Wor  thim  the  Sweeny's  of  the  Red  barns  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Sullivan. 

"  The  very  same,  ma'am.  I  mind  me  o'  hearin' 
Patrick  call  home  the  min  to  dinner  in  the  seven 
languages,  an'  his  own  aunt  tould  me  he  had  the  hair 
sthandin'  on  her  head  talkin'  Haybrew  to  her  the 
whole  time  she  was  there," 

"  Was  that  the  widdy  Powers  beyant  the  big  hill  ?" 

"The  same,  ma'am."  "Faith,  thin,"  said  Mrs. 
Sullivan,  "he  must  have  talked  her  hair  aff  wid  his 
Haybrew,  for  her  poll  was  as  smooth  as  a  bullyard 
ball  afore  I  left  Limerick." 

"An'  there  was  Cardinal  Mezzofanti,"  continued  Mr. 
Grady,  not  heeding  this  rebuke  to  his  veracity,  "  he 
spoke  fifty-eight  languages  before  he  died." 

"Where  did  he  find  'em  all  to  learn,  Misther 
Grady?  I  thought  there  was  only  the  Irish,  an' 
Dutch,  an'  the  Frinch  besides  the  English.  An'  sure 
they're  enough  to  bother  our  brains  widout  puttin' 
any  more  onto  us.  That's  what  I  say." 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear  tell  o'  the  tower  o'  Babel,"  said 
Mr.  Grady  with  that  air  which  warned  the  old  lady 
that  the  moment  to  crush  her  had  arrived. 

"I  did  as  well  as  other  people,"  she  answered  boldly. 

"  Well  there's  where  he  picked  up  his  fifty  eight, 
ma'am." 

"  An'  did  he  have  to  go  as  far  as  that  for  'em,  poor 
man?" 


Mr.  Grady  refused  to  pursue  the  subject  any  fur- 
ther, conscious  that  he  had  overwhelmed  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van if  she  were  the  sort  of  a  woman  to  submit  when 
knocked  down  and  out.  There  was  a  silence  of  a  few 
minutes  until  her  greatest  grievance  jogging  her  mem- 
ory she  cautiously  opened  her  mind  to  Mr.  Grady. 

"Yistherday  was  a  great  day  for  the  Frinch,"  she 
said. 

"  It  was  a  great  day  for  us  all  I  hope,  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van." 

"  Ay,  but  isn't  it  sfhrange  how  they  all  come  out  on 
that  day  wid  colors  an'  ribbons  an'  silks  an'  velvets, 
an'  make  nothin'  at  all  o'  Christmas  day  just  like  hay- 
thens." 

"  I  never  saw  a  woman  that  had  so  much  agin  the 
Frinch  as  you  have,"  said  Mr.  Grady  with  a  touch  of 
severity.  "  Now  if  you  knew,  Mrs  Sullivan — " 

"  I  don't  want  to  know." 

"If  you  knew,  Mrs.  Sullivan — " 

"  Why  couldn't  they  let  me  alone,  and  take  some- 
wan  like  yourself  to  play  their  thricks  an — " 

"  If  you  knew,  Mrs.  Sullivan,  all  we  owe  to  them — " 

"  All  they  owe  to  us,  you  mane,  Misther  Grady. 
Sure  they  owe  everywan,  an'  it's  not  us  that  'ud  owe 
the  likes  o'  them." 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  ye  ma'am,  why  I  admire  the  Frinch," 
said  Mr.  Grady  with  savage  deliberation.  "  First  of 
all  to  begin  right  here  at  home,  they  helped  this  coun- 
thry  whin  it  needed  help  against  England  in  the  great 
an'  glorious  sthruggle  for  independence  in  '76.  An' 
next,"  with  increased  vehemence,  "  they  have  been  as 
good  Catholics  as  wan  'ud  wish  to  see  till  lately.  An' 
best  of  all  whin  Irishmin  wanted  a  home,  which  they 


i6 

couldn't  git  annywhere  else,  Frinchrain  gev  it  to  thim. 
.An'  whin  Ireland  wanted  help  she  sint  her  soldiers  to 
help  her.  Look  at  the  Frinch  ginerals  that  fought 
Orange  William," — this  was  a  favorite  figure  with  Mr. 
Grady  and  most  exasperating  to  Mrs.  Sullivan, — 
"  look  at  Gineral  Humbert  landin'  his  throops  on  the 
shores  o'  Bantry  Bay,  look  at  what  the  great  Napoleon 
said  to  Emmet,  *  me  heart  is  wid  ye,  but  me  hands 
are  full,'  look  at—" 

"  Ay,  luk,  luk,  luk, •'  cried  Mrs.  Sullivan  with  scorn, 
"  its  a  wondher  yer  eyes  are  not  turned  round  wid 
lukkin'  backwards.  Well,  ould  man,  I  luk  to  Saranac, 
an'  I  see  what  I  see,  an'  I  don't  care  for  Napoleon  or 
Emmet  or  anny  other  great  gineral.  What  did  they 
know  about  the  Frinch  in  Saranac  ?  An'  I  say  I'll 
have  none  of  'em.  You  can  have  'em  all  if  you  like." 

Mr.  Grady  did  not  reply.  The  warmth  of  the  dis- 
cussion had  disturbed  the  entire  household,  and  the 
appearance  of  Hugh  put  an  end  to  it,  much  as  that 
young  man  would  like  to  have  it  continued  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  hearing  the  lectures  on  universal  his- 
tory. He  was  to  his  astonishment  still  much  im- 
pressed by  the  letter  of  Amedee  LaRoche.  It  had 
taken  such  a  hold  of  his  fancy  that  try  as  he  would 
he  could  not  avoid  picturing  certain  consequences 
sure  to  follow  if  its  suggestions  turned  out  facts. 
Hugh  was  not  an  imaginative  man.  He  had  few 
dreams,  being  altogether  given  to  business,  and  too 
apt  to  pass  over  as  trifling  whatever  would  not  bear 
i eduction  to  dollars  and  cents,  or  had  not  some  rela- 
tion to  them.  But  he  said  to  himself  again  and 
again,  what  will  happen  to  the  DeLaunays  if  Annexe's 
letter  tells  the  truth,  and  he  went  over  all  that  he 


knew  about  this  interesting  family,  and  labeled  it  in 
his  mind  for  immediate  need.  He  foresaw  a  long 
series  of  events,  curious  and  dreadful,  that  might 
never  happen  and  were  yet  possible,  ^nd  might  one 
day  set  themselves  against  pride,  beauty,  money  and 
a  good  name. 

When  Amede'e  LaRoche  ran  away  from  Saranac, 
the  firm  whose  funds  he  had  spent  to  the  sum  of 
three  thousand  dollars,  were  David  Winthrop  and 
Howard  DeLaunay.  They  were  tanners.  The  for- 
mer was  a  man  of  means  then,  the  latter  was  a  man 
of  means  now.  The  rich  man  bad  grown  poor,  and 
the  poor  man  rich  since  that  time.  If  there  had  been 
any  harm  done  to  Amedee  LaRoche  the  junior  part- 
ner hai  done  it,  for  he  was  then  poor  and  desperate, 
a  stranger  in  the  town,  and,  as  he  had  many  times 
shown  himself,  a  hard,  grasping,  perhaps  unprincipled 
man. 

It  was  seventeen  years  since  Mr.  De  Launay  and 
his  name  had  appeared  in  Saranac.  Hugh,  then  a  boy 
of  eleven,  recalled  his  well  dressed  handsome  figure 
clearly.  In  polish  and  education  he  and  his  were  far 
above  anything  that  had  ever  been  seen  in  the  town. 
Until  this  day  Sullivan  did  not  know  whence  De 
Launay  came,  or  to  what  locality  or  tribe  he  might 
belong.  His  wife  was  a  retired,  brilliant-looking  woman 
who  never  talked,  and  his  only  child  a  handsome 
creature  of  Hugh's  age  with  a  sharp  tongue,  a  fond- 
ness for  private  theatricals,  and  considerable  beauty. 
They  were  known  to  be  poor  on  their  arrival.  In  five 
years  the  senior  partner  in  the  tanning  business  sold 
his  interest  to  DeLaunay,  and  the  latter's  fortune  then 
made  had  rolled  up  to  large  figures  since. 


The  story  of  the  firm's  gentleness  in  dealing  with 
their  clerk  was  often  told  and  well  known  to  everyone. 
Mr.  DeLaunay  agreed  to  bear  two-thirds  of  the  loss 
if  Amedee  were  allowed  to  remain  in  exile  unpun- 
ished. His  motives  were  anything  but  sentimental 
or  Christian. 

"  It  will  cost  too  much  to  find  him,"  he  said,  "  and 
when  found  we  have  nothing  to  get  from  him.  Let 
him  go  to  the  devil  so  long  as  he  keeps  out  of  Sara- 
nac." 

And  that  was  the  end  of  it,  save  for  the  mental 
agonies  which  the  exile,  who  in  his  letters  always  ad- 
mitted his  guilt,  and  his  lonely  father  and  mother  had 
endured  for  fifteen  years. 

"Pleasant  drearrs, '  thought  Hugh,  "they  must 
give  Mr.  Howard  DeLaunay,  if  he  had  any  hand  in 
causing  'em." 

It  was  without  any  clear  intention  he  questioned 
Tim  Grady  on  the  popular  rumors  concerning  Ame- 
dee's  flight. 

"  Amedee  was  a  nice  boy,"  said  Mr.  Grady  reflec- 
tively. "  Why,  he  must  be  a  man  o'  thirty- six  be  this 
time.  Yis,  he's  thirty-six.  It's  thirty-six  years  ago 
this  very  month  since  I  shtud  for  him  along  wid  Mrs. 
Surprenant." 

"  You  his  godfather  ?"  cried  Hugh. 

"  Shure,  he's  all  mixed  up  wid  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Sul- 
livan, "  an'  he  bringin'  in  his  anshent  history  to  de- 
find  'em." 

"  I'm  his  godfather,"  said  Mr.  Grady.  "  I  shtud 
for  more  children  than  any  other  man  in  Saranac,  an' 
I  say  I  never  knew  a  nicer  b'y  than  Amedee  Patrick 
LaRoche.  I  gave  him  his  middle  name." 


19 

"  And  what  happened  to  him  that  he  should  have 
turned  out  so  badly  ?" 

"  What  happens  to  any  young  man  that  drinks  an' 
gambles,  and  goes  with  gamblers,  as  he  did  ?"  said 
Mr.  Grady  sadly.  "  We  warned  him,  but  it  was  no 
use.  He  was  gone  a  week  afore  anywan  knew  what 
'ad  happened." 

"  It  was  a  great  pity,"  said  Hugh. 

"  It  was,"  assented  Mr.  Grady,  "  but  he  kin  thank 
his  shtars  that  he  wasn't  sent  to  Dannemora  prison. 
If  he  had  to  deal  wid  ould  Winthrop  he'd  be  there 
to-day.  Howard  DeLaunay  showed  himself  a  gintle- 
man  that  time,  shuie." 

"  I  heard  someone  say  on^e  they  didn't  think  he 
stole  the  money." 

"Who  stole  it,  thin?"  said  Mr.  Grady.  Hugh 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  received  a  threatening 
glance  from  his  mother  for  this  display  of  a  French 
notion. 

"  That's  what  was  done  to  me  when  I  asked  the 
question,"  said  Hugh. 

"  There's  no  use  talkin'  o'  these  things,"  said  Mr. 
Grady,  as  he  refilled  his  glass  with  cider,  "'tis  my 
firrum  belief,  an'  of  everywan  that  was  livin'  then,  that 
Amede*e  took  that  money,  an'  so  ruined  his  parents 
an'  himself." 

Hugh  felt  a  lightness  of  spirits  after  this  positive 
declaration  from  the  godfather  of  the  exile,  and  troub- 
led himself  no  more  with  old  LaRoche's  letter.  For 
a  time,  however,  he  took  pleasure  in  studying  the 
elegant  Mr.  DeLaunay,  as  one  looks  upon  the  survivor 
of  a  great  railway  disaster ;  and  seeing  Miss  DeLau- 
nay's  furs  and  velvets  sweeping  by  occasionally,  he  fell 


to  wondering  at  the  nimble,  graceful  feet  that  some- 
times dance  over  hidden  volcanoes. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   SENIOR  PARTNER. 

The  letter  to  Osborne,  Texas,  was  written  and  sent 
promptly,  so  that  Hugh  had  a  cheerful  word  to  give 
LaRoche  when  the  old  man  asked  him  about  it.  It 
was  plain  from  the  father's  face  that  his  mind  had 
slipped  into  the  old  groove  again,  and  that  he  could 
wish  the  letter  had  not  been  sent.  The  excitement 
of  the  holiday  season,  and  the  hint  in  Amedee's  letter 
had  worked  together  to  disturb  a  cool  disposition. 
Good  sense  had  returned.  He  might  have  seen,  too, 
that  Hugh  was  half  sorry  for  sending  the  letter,  and 
between  them  arose  a  silent  agreement  to  say  no 
more  about  it. 

It  was  a  racing  day  for  Saranac.  A  track  had  been 
made  on  the  ice,  and  local  trotters  were  flying  by 
every  nnment.  A  c"owd  of  men  and  boys  were  scat- 
tered along  the  ice  track,  the  sun  was  shining,  it  was 
cold  enough  to  freeze  an  Eskimo,  Hugh  was  divided 
between  a  desire  to  see  the  races,  and  a  wish  to  settle 
a  money  matter  of  six  weeks  standing  with  his  friend 
John  Winthrop.  For  in  Saranac  as  elsewhere  the 
poetic  side  of  life  had  its  place  and  its  value  in  the 
market,  and  was  not  permitted  to  interfere  with  busi- 
ness. He  decided  in  favor  of  Winthrop's  private 
office,  and  John  helped  him  to  the  decision  by  calling 
him  in.  The  outer  office  was  empty  and  the  law- 
books  had  their  backs  t  irned  in  orderly  fashion  to  the 
central  stove.  Winthrop  was  looking  at  this  stove 


21 

•when  his  friend  entered.  He  had  bought  it  cf  Hugh, 
and  was  not  satisfied  with  it.  Damon  had  sold 
Pythias  a  stove,  shortly  after  the  scaffold  scene,  and 
had  beaten  his  Pythias  four  dollars  on  the  value,  the 
latter  thought,  and  felt  bad  over  it  in  consequence. 
This  transaction  might  have  looked  ridiculous  in 
ancient  Syracuse,  but  in  Saranac  it  was  the  correct 
thing ;  and  better  yet,  Damon  was  come  after  his 
money  to  Pythias. 

The  two  men  really  held  a  fine  relationship  to- 
wards each  other,  and  only  suspected  its  rare  quality. 
They  were  Saranac  born,  in  the  same  month  of  the 
same  year.  They  had  studied  in  the  same  school  and 
from  the  moment  their  lives  had  come  together  a 
strong  attraction  had  kept  the  two  natures  in  close 
contact  ever  after.  In  twenty  years  they  had  not 
been  a  month  apart.  The  same  academy  taught  them 
the  higher  branches.  When  the  war  of  the  rebellion 
broke  out  they  enlisted  in  the  same  regiment,  and  went 
through  the  four  years  without  a  wound  or  a  separa- 
tion. The  study  of  law  had  confined  Winthrop  to  an 
office,  work  on  the  lake  steamers  took  Hugh  away 
every  other  night  from  home,  but  left  him  an  entire 
winter  for  leisure.  They  had  a  great  love  for  each 
other,  and  never  spoke  of  it,  as  is  the  custom  with 
northern  peoples.  They  had  become  used  to  it  as 
they  were  used  to  the  lake  at  their  doors,  whose 
beauties  they  never  talked  about  unless  to  strangers, 
since  feeling  had  long  ago  exhausted  language  on 
such  matters. 

All  Saranac  people  have  a  fine  taste  for  bargains. 
Winthrop  was  a  descendant  cf  the  Puritans  and  Sul- 
livan of  Celtic  princes  ;  they  differed  in  religious  be- 


22 

lief  for  one  was  a  Catholic  and  the  other  nothing  at 
all ;  they  differed  in  politics ;  the  Celt  was  cool  and 
unsentimental  in  this  instance,  because  it  chanced 
that  the  Saxon  was  a  hot  headed  enthusiast ;  he  was 
fair  and  Sullivan  was  dark ;  but  both  were  business 
men  and  appreciated  the  facts  that  Sullivan  had  sold 
his  stove  at  a  good  price  and  Winthrop  might  have 
done  better. 

"  It  works  fairly,"  said  John,  "  but  there  is  no  ash- 
pan  and  no  check  to  the  bottom  draught.  If  I  re- 
member rightly  when  you  sold  it  to  me  you  said  it 
was  all  there." 

"  So  it  was,  what  there  was  of  it,"  said  Hugh  smil- 
ing. 

"  You'll  have  to  let  me  off  four  dollars.  Fourteen 
is  a  steep  price  for  the  old  hulk,  and  those  important 
parts  wanting." 

<;  I  paid  forty  for  it  a  few  years  ago,"  said  Hugh, 
"  you  ought  to  feel  rich  over  your  bargain.  I  don't 
want  to  rake  up  old  sores,  but  if  you  don't  mind  I'll 
put  my  ashpan  against  your  breech-loader  and  the 
check  against  your  never  to-be-forgotten  meerschaum." 

"These  are  painful  memories,  Hugh." 

"  They  are.  I'll  forget  them  forever,  though,  if 
you  will  pay  me  for  that  stove,  and  maybe  I  might  be 
weak  enough  to  send  you  a  new  ashpan." 

The  lawyer  paid.     "  What  news  ?" 

"  Tim  Grady  is  giving  lessons  in  universal  history 
to  my  mother." 

"No?" 

"  Fact.     I  attended  one  myself." 

"  How  does  your  mother  take  them  ?" 

"  As  a  hen  takes  water.     You  ought  to  get  down 


23 

there  some  stormy  day, — Tim  always  comes  in  a  storm, 
— and  take  them  in." 

"  I  would  but  the  rehearsals  are  beginning  — " 

"I  have  an  immense  part,''  said  Hugi  mournfully. 
"  I  am  the  hero." 

"And  you  are  sorry  for  it,"  said  Winthrop  with  a 
groan,  "  with  Miss  DeLaunay  for  the  hereine  and  so 
touching  a  character !  I  wish  I  could  act  a  very  little 
bit  to  get  such  a  position." 

"  You  can't  act, '  said  Hugh  consolingly,  "  not  even 
the  littlest  bit.  When  you  get  out  on  the  stage  you 
are  not  yourself  and  you  are  not  your  character.  You 
are  a  talking-machine.  It's  good  they  give  you  little 
to  say." 

"  You  are  nothing  extra,"  said  John. 

"  No.  I  am  Hugh  Sullivan  all  through.  When  I 
weep  I  cry  as  I  used  at  school  after  a  flogging,  when 
I  laugh  the  deck  shakes.  I  wouldn't  do  for  Gaston 
De  Pumpkin,  but  as  a  plain,  American  sea-captain  I  am 
matchless.  Now  this  Ingomar  business  of  Miss  De 
Launay's  is  to  my  taste  As  a  barbarian,  savage  or 
tame,  I  have  only  to  be  natural,  and  the  make-up  will 
do  the  rest." 

"  Perhaps  you  could  tell  me  why  at  least  I  can't  be 
John  Winthrop,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  Oh,  that's  delicate  ground,"  Hugh  replied,  and  at 
once  a  dullness  followed  their  former  heartiness  of 
manner.  They  dropped  the  rehearsal  and  talked 
business,  in  which  Sullivan  never  lost  interest.  Win- 
throp's  mind,  while  his  tongue  wagged,  ran  upon  the 
peculiar  fitness  of  his  friend  for  the  part  of  Ingomar. 
Miss  DeLaunay  made  a  beautiful  and  clever  Parthe- 
nia,  and  to  be  her  savage  captor,  to  undergo  the  magi- 


24 

cal  transformation  which  her  tact  and  love  brought 
about  in  his  savage  heart  seemed  a  blisstul  process  to 
John  Winthrop.  He  would  have  given  much  to  know 
just  what  Hugh  thoaght  about  it.  His  pretence  of 
indifference  might  be  honest.  Winthrop  thought  it  a 
pretence  for  one  or  two  good  reasons.  Hugh  was  a 
handsome  gentleman  whom  many  believed  worthy  of 
such  a  woman  as  Parthenia,  and  although  he  had  no 
more  than  a  slight  acquaintance  with  her  family  Par- 
thenia herself  had  invited  him  earnestly  to  take  an 
important  part  in  the  drama,  and  had  said  to  Win- 
throp and  others,  he  has  the  very  air  of  the  mountain 
prince.  As  if,  thought  John,  not  one  of  us  were  like 
him  ;  and  he  strode  once  around  the  room  after  the 
manner  of  a  tragedian. 

"  Got  the  toothache  ?  "  said  Hugh  in  sympathy 

"  No.     Keep  on  with   your  story  of  the  horse  bar 
gain."     Hugh  did  not  notice  the  sarcastic  tone   as  if 
Winthrop  would  like  to  have  added,  you  talk  of  noth- 
ing else.     The   lawyer  went  on  with  his  speculations 
until  the  door  opened  and  his  father  entered. 

"Good-day,  boys. '  He  staggered  into  a  chair  with 
a  heavy  sigh. 

"  Good  racing  down  below,"  he  stuttered  when  his 
breath  had  returned  to  him.  "  Wonder  you  boys 
weren't  there." 

"  I  was  just  going,"  said  his  son.  "  I'll  run  down 
and  see  what  Merritt's  colt  can  do,  and  come  back 
immediately." 

The  old  man  buried  his  face  in  the  newspaper  until 
the  door  had  closed  on  him,  and  then  looked  at  Hugh 
with  a  sad  but  knowing  smile. 

"  He's   dodging  me  you  see,  Sullivan.     He  hasn't 


25 

allowed  me  to  speak  to  him  alone  since  I  found  out" 
— he  paus.dfor  a  moment — "what  I  suppose  you  all 
know" — another  pause — "that  he  is  visiting  De 
Launay's  too  often." 

Hugh  looked  away  and  said  nothing. 

"  I  have  nothing  against  the  girl.  If  he  wants  to 
marry  her  I  don't  object.  But  Hugh"  -  with  a  sud- 
denly broken  voice — "  I  know  them.  She  will  never 
care  for  him.  They  will  certainly  oppose  him.  If  his 
heart  gets  fixed  on  her,  and  for  nothing,  I'm  afraid — 
I  know  what  will  happen.  DeLaunay  gave  me  the 
first  knock-down  I  ever  got.  It  wouldn't  be  strange 
if  he  got  a  chance  to  give  me  the  last." 

Hugh  felt  a  new  interest  in  Amedee  LaRoche  and 
his  recent  letter.  He  had  never  been  so  near  the 
secrets  of  the  old  firm  as  now,  and  with  his  usual 
audacity  attempted  to  seize  one  of  them 

"  I  never  heard  just  how  he  happened  to  down 
you,"  said  he. 

"  It  was  not  downing.  He  caught  me  at  a  nice  mo- 
ment, and  pushed  me  out  of  a  business  I  had  built 
up.  I  cared  little  then  for  I  had  better  schemes  on 
hand.  But  it  was  his  meanness  that  made  me  mad.  I 
took  him  in  when  he  had  nothing  but  a  bare  one 
thousand  to  his  name.  I  thought  he  had  more.  He 
made  me  believe  so.  Oh,  he  was  clever,  more  so 
than  I  was.  He  made  his  money  out  of  me,  and 
then  when  I  was  squeezed  tight  in  a  wheat  trouble 
dumped  me." 

"  It  wasn't  exactly  dishonesty,  or  anything  of  that 
sort  ?" 

"  If  it  had  been,"  said  Wmthrop  with  animation, 
"  I'd  have  put  him  in  jail  and  kept  him  there  If  I 


26 

could  only,  before  I  die,  get  my  hands  on  his  throat 
that  way  he'd  be  dead  first.  No,  it  was  strictly  a 
business  trick.  He  was  making  money,  and  he 
couldn't  let  gratitude  stand  in  the  way.  I  began  to 
go  down  from  that.  He  went  up.  I  guess  it  will  be 
so  to  the  end." 

"You  don't  remember  Amedee  LaRoche,  do  you?" 
said  Hugh  with  some  excitement. 

"  We  called  him  Stone,"  said  Winthrop.  "  I  re- 
member him.  You  didn't  know  him,  did  you  ?" 

"  His  father  showed  me  a  letter  from  him  a  few 
days  back.  He  seemed  to  be  a  smart  fellow." 

"  Very.  He  bled  us  for  three  thousand.  DeLau- 
nay  bore  the  most  of  it  to  save  the  boy  from  jail.  I 
thought  it  kind  of  him  then.  Now  I  often  wonder 
what  trick  he  played  on  the  boy  that  made  him  so 
kind." 

Hugh  was  electrified  by  the  last  remark. 

'•  You  suspected  nothing  since  ?" 

"  Why,"  said  Winthrop  laughing.  "  I  have  sus- 
pected everything.  For  years  I  have  watched  every 
step  he  took,  and  had  his  whole  life  looked  up  by  de- 
tectives. He  has  a  clean  record,  so  much  the  worse 
for  me.  But  if  ever  I  catch  him  tripping,  if  he  ever 
gives  me  a  chance  to  down  him,  tnere'll  be  a  fall,  my 
countrymen,  which  Julius  Caesar  s  was'nt  nothing  to." 

Hugh  had  a  great  respect  for  old  Winthrop,  and 
was  pained  at  the  evil  look  which  accompanied  these 
words.  It  was  plain  that  but  for  the  scaffold  he  would 
like  to  Ftrangle  Howard  DeLaunay  with  his  own 
hands  ;  seeing  Hugh's  astonishment  he  said : 

*•  It  sounds  bloodthirsty,  and  perhaps  I  don't  mean 
half  of  it.  But  it  expresses  my  feelings  to  a  dot. 


27 

Now  what  riles  me  mere  is  this  affair  of  John's.  That 
girl  will  take  his  mind  away  from  him,  and  then 
bounce  him.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  would 
happen  then.  I  don't  find  any  fault  with  the  thing 
itself  I'm  in  favor  of  it.  But,  Hugh,  I  want  that 
boy  to  live  as  long  as  I  do.  I  can't  bear  to  think 
of  him  lying  in  my  honse  dead,  and  me  looking 
at  him. 

"See  here,"  said  Hugh,  roughly  breaking  in  upon 
this  strain  of  feeling,  "  don't  sniffle  over  a  lancy.  1 
hope  it  won't  hapoen  but  it  has  happened  to  better 
men  than  you.  They  bore  it,  and  so  must  you,  if  it 
comes.  You've  a  good  bit  to  blame  yourself.  You 
brought  the  boy  up  that  way.  He  used  to  make  me 
s-hiver  in  the  at  my  with  his  talk.  He  always  said  if 
he  were  taken  prisoner  or  badly  wounded  he  would 
end  his  life  himself." 

"  Many  a  soldier  did  it,"  said  Winthrop,  "  religious 
ones  too." 

"  Not  from  principle  though  as  you  would,"  said 
Hugh  sourly. 

"  Well,  every  man  to  his  own  taste,"  Winthrop  an- 
swered. "  What  can  I  do  to  save  this  boy  of  mine." 

"  Nothing.  He  is  all  right.  I  have  no  doubt  he 
will  marry  Miss  DeLaunay  if  he  wishes.  It  will  be  a 
nice,  tip-top  way  of  settling  all  troubles  between  the 
parents." 

"  But  how  about  this  broken  life  of  mine,"  Winthrop 
said  with  feeling,  "who  will  ever  pay  me  ior  tnat  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  am  sure  of  one  thing.  There's 
a  plare  where  all  broken  things  are  made  whole 
again,  or  smashed  to  nothing.  Your  case  is  referred 
there." 


28 

David  Winthrop  was  a  broken  man.  His  white 
hair  and  sunken  eyes  were  not  however  as  painful  to 
him  as  his  withered  fortunes.  The  memory  of  a  long 
and  useless  struggle  to  retrieve  what  he  had  lost  was 
fixed  in  his  mind  and  made  his  thoughts  and  his 
words  bitter.  Hope  no  longer  lighted  his  dull  eye  or 
warmed  his  chilled  heart.  His  hopes  had  never  been 
higher  than  his  own  nature.  To  be  a  power  in  the 
county  and  to  die  rich  had  been  the  only  ambition  of 
his  life,  and  he  was  dying  in  middle  age  poor  and 
insignificant  and  spiteful,  without  dignity  and  with 
bad  humor.  The  world  laughed  at  him  even  while  it 
admitted  his  meriting  a  better  fate,  and  snubbed  him 
when  he  bought  present  glory  with  the  bitter  narra 
tion  of  past  fame.  It  was  an  open  secret,  he  had 
himself  daring  a  fit  of  emotion  declared  that  his  son's 
happiness  alene  prevented  him  from  putting  an  end 
to  a  wretched  life.  It  seemed  motive  enough  for 
suicide  that  his  career  was  ended.  Only  the  stronger 
motive  of  John's  comfort  prevented  a  catastrophe. 

To  Hugh's  last  remark  the  old  gentleman  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  Just  then  the  door  opened  and  the  ele- 
gint  DeLaunay  himself  entered  with  velvety  briskness 
and  looked  around. 

*  Good-day,  Winthrop,"  he  said.  "  Is  your  son 
in?" 

"  Take  a  chair  and  wait  for  him,"  said  Winthrop ; 
"he'll  be  in  directly — just  stepped  out  to  see  a  race." 

"  Captain  Sullivan,"  said  Mr.  DeLaunay  as  he  took 
the  chair,  "we  hope  to  see  you  at  the  rehearsal  to- 
morrow evening." 

"  I'm  going  to  take  a  whack  at  my  part  now," 
Hugh  replied  as  he  left  the  room,  laughing  over  the 


29 

pleasant  tete-a  tete  of  the  t^vo  men.  His  mind  was 
impressed  with  one  thing.  He  did  not  say  aloud  to 
his  own  thoughts,  he  only  knew  he  was  glad  that  a 
letter  had  been  sent  t®  Osborne,  Texas. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

A   REHEARSAL. 

Mrs.  Sullivan  observed  her  son's  preparation  for  a 
visit  to  DeLaunay's  with  a  disdainful  eye.  It  was  the 
n^ht  of  the  second  rehearsal,  and  whereas  Hugh  dis- 
liked amateur  theatricals  and  fidgeted  much  over  his 
promise  to  take  part,  to-night  he  felt  a  decent  inter- 
est in  the  work  and  got  himself  up  with  care.  His 
mother  went  on  muttering  asides  not  complimentary 
to  Miss  DeLaunay  and  the  young  maids  of  whom  she 
was  the  chief  in  beauty  and  wealth.  The  old  lady  in 
common  with  most  Irish  mothers  of  the  day,  had  a 
great  jealousy  of  any  woman  who  showed  interest  in 
her  son.  She  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  hand  him 
over  to  another  woman,  and  although  she  cheerfully 
admitted  to  Tim  Grady  that  the  boy  must  go  some 
day  to  his  own  house,  her  taste  would  not  be  suited 
with  any  young  lady  in  Saranac.  Her  French  neigh- 
bors in  the  county  were  never  done  marrying,  or  dis- 
cussing the  preliminaries  to  marriage.  A  girl  having 
reached  sixteen  was  whisked  into  long  dresses  so  sud- 
denly that  only  her  own  friends  recognized  her  on  the 
street.  When  a  boy  had  attained  his  majority  ^e 
might  marry  at  once,  and  often  he  married  before. 
And  on  those  occasions  so  great  was  the  rejoicing  of 
all  parties  that  Mrs.  Sullivan's  contempt  for 
French  notions  was  mingled  with  a  great  fear  of 


3° 

losing  her  own  children  in  the  same  speedy  way.  She 
did  lose  her  daughter,  but  Captain  Hugh  remained 
firm.  The  rehearsals  threatened  her  peace  of  mind 
once  more,  and  when  Hugh  sat  down  after  dressing 
to  fondle  the  children  and  chat  for  an  hour  she  began 
her  philippic  against  theatricals. 

Hugh  was  deeply  in  love  with  his  own  home  and  his 
relatives.  His  sister's  children  seemed  to  him  like  his 
own.  Their  pretty  and  sincere  love  for  him,  shown 
in  many  ways,  touched  his  heart.  For  their  mother, 
a  pale,  patient,  sweet-tempered  woman,  he  had  the 
love  of  the  brother  and  the  friend.  All  were  now  de- 
pendent on  him.  When  the  idea  of  marriage  pre- 
sented itself  occasionally  in  a  cloudy  fashion  to  his 
mind  he  thought  rather  of  these  lour  souls  so  closely 
knit  to  his  and  could  not  see  any  separation  from  them 
which  would  bring  him  more  happiness.  He  was  not 
an  over  sensitive  man.  His  fiber  was  a  trifle  coarse 
in  some  places.  His  nature  was  deep  however  and 
honest,  and  he  had  the  strong  affections  for  his  own 
peculiar  to  the  race  from  which  he  sprang. 

"  Reharesals,"  Mrs.  Sullivan  said  with  irony.  "  Has 
Regina  Del-aunay  nothin'  else  to  do  wid  her  money 
than  throw  it  away  an  ould  plays  that  the  divil  was 
father  of?" 

"Why,  mother,"  protested  Mrs.  Lajeunesse. 

"  Well,  it  may  be  different  in  this  counthry,"  said 
the  mother  in  apology,  "but  at  home  ye  might  as 
well  go  an'  sell  yerself  body  an'  sowl  to  ould  Nick  as 
turn  play  acthor.  Here  they  think  no  more  of  it  than 
gittin  divorced  an'  marryin'  agin  as  often  as  they  like.'' 

"I'll  tell  Miss  DeLaunay  what  you  say,"  Hugh 
said  gravely,  "  and  perhaps  she  will  let  me  off." 


"That  she  may,"  very  fervently.  "  The  toboggan 
was  bad  enough,  but  the  reharesals  are  worse.  I 
tould  Tim  Grady  about  'em,  an'  he  said  no  good 
could  come  of  all  this  paintun',  an'  powdhenn',  an' 
huggin',  an'  killin',  an'  the  other  goins-on  yez  do  be 
havin'  at  'em." 

"  I'll  never  do  it  again,"  said  Hugh  as  he  put  on  his 
coat,  and  went  out.  He  felt  a  kind  of  exhilaration  as 
he  stepped  into  the  road.  The  DeLaunays  had  sud- 
denly become  an  object  of  interest  to  him.  It  was 
like  a  situation  in  a  play.  Power  and  wealth  were 
reigning  respectably  on  a  hill  as  it  were,  and  shame 
was  threatening  both  with  an  overthrow.  Hugh  would 
not  have  a  partiu  it  for  all  the  money  in  DeLaunay's 
possession,  but  he  was  curious  to  see  how  near  so 
suave,  so  elegant,  so  clever  a  man  as  he  could  come 
to  ruin  and  escape  it. 

It  was  intensely  c@ld,  fully  twenty  below  zero.  In 
the  north  such  a  temperature  is  dry  and  pleasant, 
even  healthful.  The  moon  was  shining.  The  hard 
packed  snow  glittered  in  its  light.  Out  on  the  lake  a 
cleared  space  lighted  with  torches  was  crowded  with 
skaters,  and  farther  on  stood  the  toboggan  slide  bright 
with  Chinese  lanterns  and  noisy  with  the  rush  of  to 
boggans  and  the  laughing  of  the  crowd.  SleigHs  were 
passing  along  the  road  every  minute  to  the  music  of 
their  bells.  The  DeLaunay*  mansion  stood  on  the 
lake  road.  It  was  a  solid,  roomy,  handsome  building 
of  the  old  style,  enlarged  but  not  improved  under  De 
Launay's  ownership.  A  fine  park  surrounded  it.  All 
the  front  windows  shone  with  light.  The  old  brass 
knocker  still  hurg  on  the  door  though  no  longer  used, 
and  in  the  central  hall  a  majestic  stairway  of  polished 


32 

oak  rose  stately  and  slow  to  the  next  floer.  It  was  a 
house  of  refinement  and  comfort.  Hugh  noticed  some 
things  which  on  his  first  visit  escaped  him.  A  few 
touches  here  and  there  in  the  shape  of  a  picture,  a 
statue,  a  crucifix  hinted  at  the  presence  of  a  Catholic 
in  the  household.  Then  he  recalled  the  fact  that  Mr. 
DeLaunay  was  supposed  to  be  of  that  faith,  his  own 
word  and  his  regular  contribution  to  its  needs  being 
the  witnesses.  There  was  no  other  evidence.  His 
wife  and  daughter  were  most  amiable  and  indifferent 
believers  in  nothing. 

The  amateur  actors  were  assembled  in  the  green 
room,  a  back  apartment  of  green  tints  which  was  to 
serve  as  the  green-room  when  the  play  appeared.  It 
remained  in  Hugh's  memory  a  long  time  as  the  setting 
of  some  peculiar  scenes  in  connection  with  this  history. 
Hugh  was  the  last  arrival,  and  received  too  much  at- 
tention thereby.  The  popular  captain  of  the  lake 
steamer  seemed  to  improve  in  manly  beauty  with  the 
improvement  in  his  surroundings,  and  each  person 
present  had  a  pleasant  word  for  him.  His  entrance 
inspired  them.  Unconsciously  he  was  a  leader,  and 
Miss  DeLaunay  had  to  admit,  much  against  her  will, 
that  his  influence  reached  even  herself. 

The  rehearsal  began  with  spirit.  Papa  DeLaunay 
was  an  enthusiastic  amateur  and  played  father  to 
Parthenia  in  an  earnest,  gentlemanly  way.  Hugh 
felt  like  a  detective  as  he  watched  him,  and  tried  hard 
to  keep  his  eyes  and  thoughts  on  commonplace  things. 
The  elegant  appearance  of  DeLaunay  iarred  him. 
His  silver- white  hair  did  not  suit  the  head  of  a.  crim- 
inal. The  fine  aristocratic  features,  the  white  hands, 
and  graceful  form  opposed  the  notion  of  crime  and 


33 

sin.  Looking  at  the  richness  of  the  room  Hugh 
thought  of  Dannemora  prison  and  the  Texan  plains. 
He  was  simple-minded  enough  to  be  horrified  by  these 
contrasts,  which  had  pleased  and  thrilled  him  in 
dramas.  DeLaunay  was  conscious  of  the  Captain's 
interested  gaze,  and  sat  beside  him  in  an  interval. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me  as  an  actor  ?"  he 
said. 

Hugh,  conscious  of  two  senses  in  the  question, 
fidgeted. 

"  You  do  well  for  an  old  man,"  he  said. 

The  old  man  laughed.  He  had  a  musical  throat. 
In  his  face  there  was  scarcely  a  wrinkle. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?"  said  Hugh. 

"  I  am  only  fifty-five,"  he  answered.  "  I  don't  call 
that  old." 

"  Nor  I.  You  are  a  very  clever  actor,"  said  Hugh 
with  a  seriousness  that  evidently  startled  Mr.  De 
Launay.  He  looked  sharply  for  an  instant  at  Hugh, 
and  then  excused  himself  politely  to  resume  his  place 
in  the  play.  It  was  not  possible  that  conscience  ever 
troubled  a  man  with  so  serene  a  face  and  so  benevo- 
lent an  expression  But  Hugh  in  his  innocence  of 
finer  human  sensibilities  fancied  his  last  remark  had 
struck  home.  Had  Mr.  DeLaunay  remained  a  few 
minutes  longer  he  might  have  said  harsher  things  for 
the  guilty  conscience.  The  rehearsal  went  on,  and 
Ingomar's  acting  gave  every  one  special  delight,  and 
tortured  John  Winthrop  with  envy  of  it.  He  could 
act  like  a  gentleman  in  his  part,  but  it  had  no  effect 
and  had  nothing  to  do  with  beautiful  Parthenia,  whose 
melting  eyes  looked  tenderly  on  Hugh  and  whose 
white  hands  clasped  Hugh's  rougher  ones  in  the  scenes 


34 

between  the  savage  chief  and  his  captive.  Miss  De 
Launay  was  in  love  with  Hugh's  acting,  although  she 
k.iew  he  would  amount  to  little  in  any  other  part. 
He  was  simply  Hugh  Sullivan,  the  captain  of  a  lake 
steamer,  in  all  that  he  did,  and  his  orders  to  his  sav- 
age band  were  given  in  the  tone  he  would  use  to  lazy 
deck-hands.  But  it  was  well  done  for  an  amateur,  it  was 
dashing,  and  she  was  satisfied.  Then  she  saw  that  he 
was  interested  in  her,  that  he  surrendered  to  her  charms 
(in  the  play)  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  a  real  surrender 
in  every  day  life.  It  was  the  last  idea  in  his  mind, 
however.  He  was  wondering  if  in  real  life  Miss 
Regina  DeLaunay  would  be  so  royally  brave  for 
her  father's  sake,  and  would  make  such  sacrifices  for 
him  as  Parthenia  made  for  her  parent. 

Mrs.  DeLaunay  complimented  him  on  his  acting. 
She  was  a  quiet-mannered  woman,  languid  without 
being  offensive,  and  did  not  seem  to  depend  very 
much  on  her  husband  or  daughter  for  her  own  com- 
forts. 

"  It  is  pleasant  for  Regina  to  have  an  actor  beside 
her,"  she  said,  "  it  gives  her  an  occasion  to  exert  her- 
self." 

Hugh  thought  irreverently  that  Mr.  DeLaunay  had 
never  been  the  occasion  of  great  exertion  for  his  wife. 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  friends,"  continued  Madame, 
"  if  for  no  other  reason  than  to  keep  up  these  private 
theatricals.  I  admire  them." 

"Miss  DeLaunay  has  so  many  friends,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  lady  frankly,  "  she  has  not 
five  in  Saranac  and  New  York  together.  That  is  her 
own  affair.  But  it  can  be  said  to  her  credit  that  she 
has  no  enemies." 


35 

Hugh  wondered  much  at  the  contrast  between  the 
lady's  languid  manner  and  her  strong  expressions. 

"John  Winthrop  would  give  much  to  act  as  you 
do,"  said  Mrs.  DeLaunay,  "  you  are  great  friends  I 
believe?" 

"  Went  to  school  together,  fought  through  the  war 
side  by  side,  ma'am." 

"A  pity  you  cannot  act  alike,"  with  mild  sar- 
casm. 

The  rehearsal  ended,  tea  was  served  in  the  green 
room  and  Regina  did  her  Ingomar  the  honor  of  talk- 
ing with  him  ten  minutes,  to  the  intense  jealousy  of 
Winthrop.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  conversation  by 
any  means.  Hugh  watched  her  much  as  an  old  Ro- 
man might  have  regarded  a  Christian  soon  to  be 
thrown  to  the  lions,  without  being  conscious  that  such 
observation  might  be  offensive,  and  Regina,  who 
wished  to  be  divinely  gracious  to  a  plebian  who  acted 
so  beautifully,  was  dismayed  to  find  that  Mr.  Sullivan 
was  not  aware  of  her  graciousness. 

"  It  is  natural  with  some  people  to  act  well,"  said 
Regira,  thinking  of  her  own  talents.  "  It  must  be 
natural  to  you." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Hugh,  "  I  feel  at  first  like  a  pig 
on  ice.  Afterwards  I  feel  like  a  fish  in  a  frying-pan. 
But  there's  plenty  of  fun  in  it." 

"  You  are  a  born  Ingomar,"  said  she,  sure  that  in 
real  life  the  barbarian  chief  would  have  talked  in 
Grecian  parlors  of  pigs  and  fish  and  frying-pans. 

"  I  would  like  to  have  been  the  real  thing,"  he  re- 
plied. 

She  was  touched  with  the  compliment  and  the 
earnest  look  that  went  with  it. 


36 

"For  the  sake  of  the  real  Parthenia?''  ihe  said 
sweetly. 

"  No,  for  the  sake  of  the  life.  There  must  have 
been  a  pile  of  money  in  it,"  he  said,  thoughtfully. 

"I  see  you  have  your  fortune  to  make  yet,  Mr. 
Sullivan." 

He  became  suddenly  aware  of  her  sarcasm. 

"  Every  man,"  he  said  laughing,  "  has  that  to  do. 
He  has  the  choice  too  of  getting  it  honestly,  or  by 
playing  Ingomar." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answered  slyly,  "  your  talent  for 
acting  might  be  of  use  to  you  there." 

"  It  has  helped  many  a  man,"  said  Hugh  with  a 
glance  towards  her  father,  which  of  course  had  no 
meaning  to  her.  When  she  moved  away  to  entertain 
another  of  the  party  Miss  Regina  felt  that  her  ten 
minutes  had  been  wasted.  Hugh  Sullivan  was  not 
only  stupid  but  coarse,  and  seemed  t  o  know  nothing 
of  the  refinements  of  thought  and  speech.  Pigs  and 
fish  and  frying-pans !  She  complained  of  him  to  John 
Winthrop. 

"  You  know  how  he  has  been  brought  up,"  said 
John,  "his  people  are  somewhat  dull  and  rough,  and 
1  suppose  he  followed  them.  Mere  Irish  you  kno  v." 
^"  I  am  mere  Irish,"  she  said  with  dignity. 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  John  cheerfully.  "  You 
have  some  of  the  Celtic  blood  in  you,  bat  it  is  blue 
not  red.  And  your  training,  and  your  parents,  Miss 
DeLaunay,  and  your  creed.  These  are  important 
circumstances.  You  are  not  merely  Irish." 

*'•  No,  I  suppose  not,"  mollified,  "  but  if  he  is  only 
what  he  is  how  could  you  have  gro  vn  up  together  so 
intimate  and  friendly — Damon  and  Pythias,  you  know." 


37 

Mr.  Winthrop  snapped  his  fingers,—  mentally  at 
the  legend.  Physically  he  never  did  such  a  thing. 

"  Damon  and  Pythias,"  he  said,  "  were  only  a  cir- 
cumstance to  us.  Probably  that  Hugh  Sullivan,  whose 
fibre  is  a  little  too  coarse  for  you,  saved  my  life  at 
the  risk  of  his  own  a  half  dozen  times.  We  had  the 
fever  both.  You  ought  to  hav  e  seen  his  gentleness  as  a 
nurse.  He  has  the  fibre  of  a  man,  Miss  DeLau- 
nay.  I  suppose  he  cannot  make  drawing-room 
speeches,  and  talks  of  coal  and  steam  and  money — " 

"  And  pigs  and  fish  and  frying-pans,"  she  added 

"  That's  a  matter  of  taste,1'  he  said  smiling.  "  I 
know  he's  deficient  in  the  finer  sense.  But  if  you 
like  a  man,  brave,  honest,  religious,  superstitious,  too 
-all  Catholics  are  superstitious— your  Ingomar  is 
a  specimen  not  to  be  found  everywhere." 

*•  How  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so.  You  interest  me 
in  him  very  much.  I  do  admire  a  brave  man,  a  strong 
one.  I  like  to  watch  the  lake  boatmen  in  summer. 
Such  vigor,  such  muscle !  But  they  swear  dreadfully." 

John  was  satisfied.  The  jealousy  which  pinched 
his  heart  when  he  thought  of  Hugh's  acting,  had  no 
reason  for  existence.  Miss  DeLaunay  could  never 
endure  a  man  who  talked  of  pigs  in  a  parlor,  and  that 
was  Hugh's  fashion  although  he  was  anything  but 
vulgar  or  stupid.  Therefore  he  listened  with  pleasure 
to  the  parting  compliments  which  Hugh  received. 

"  You  will  not  fail  us,"  said  Regina  earnestly,  "  at 
the  next  rehearsal.  We  cannot  do  without  you." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  shall  get  around. 
But  my  mother  is  very  much  set  against  private  thea- 
tricals. She  says  in  Ireland  you  might  as  well  sell 
your  soul  to  the  devil  as  turn  play-actor." 


38 

"  I  must  call  on  her,  and  change  that  opinion,*'  said 
Reginia  sweetly. 

"  There  is  another  side  to  Mrs.  Sullivan's  opposi- 
t:on,"  John  said  when  all  were  gone.  He  was  laugh- 
ing "  In  her  eyes  there  is  no  one  like  her  son,  and 
she  dreads  the  moment  when  beauty  will  take  him 
from  her." 

Regina  joined  in  his  laugh.  The  idea  that  a  mere 
Irish  peasant  woman  should  fear  to  lose  her  son  to 
the  princess  of  Saranac  was  very  amusing.  Hugh 
heard  her  sweet  laugh  as  he  stepped  onward  down  the 
avenue,  and  a  touch  of  sadness  came  upon  him.  What 
a  pity  if  the  happiness  which  made  her  heart  so  light 
should  suddenly  be  buried  under  black  ruin.  He  felt 
a  sudden  wish  to  prevent  such  a  catastrophe  even  at 
the  expense  of  justice,  and  he  determined  in  any  case 
to  have  nothing  to  do  with  Li  Roche  and  his  scape- 
grace son.  For  the  second  time  he  was  sorry  the 
letter  had  been  sent  to  Osborne,  Texas. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  LETTER  FROM  TEXAS. 

When  Captain  La  Roche  touched  Hugh's  arm  one 
night  on  the  street  and  asked  him  to  call  at  his  house 
before  nine  o'clock  he  understood  at  once  that  a  letter 
had  arrived  from  Amedee.  He  answered  shortly  that 
it  was  too  stormy  a  night  and  he  had  other  business. 
The  tone  might  have  warned  La  Roche  against  press- 
ing his  invitation. 

"  I  have  a  letter,"  said  he,  "  from  my  son.  I'm 
goin'  to  'ave  DeLaunay  arrested  to-morrow." 

Hugh  turned  upon  him  fiercely. 


39 

"  How  many  have  you  told  of  this  thing?''  he  said. 

"No  one  but  t>e  ol'  woman.  She's  so  tickled — I 
never  saw  anyone  take  on  as  she  does.  But  we 
'aven't  tol'  no  one  till  we  know  what  we're  goin'  to 
do." 

"  1 11  go  down  with  you  now,"  said  Hugh.  In  spite 
of  his  own  wishes  he  was  forced  to  enter  into  a  matter 
which  boded  so  much  evil  to  Retina  DeLaunay,  if 
only  to  protect  her.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  disgrace  and  sorrow  coming  to  her,  and  being  man 
of  the  world  enough  to  know  that  publicity  might  be 
prevented  in  many  ways  he  resolved  then  and  there 
"to  see  her  through  it."  It  was  a  bitter  night.  The 
wind  and  the  falling  snow  together  made  the  time 
mournful.  It  seemed  to  Hugh  as  they  plodded 
along  the  lighted  streets  that  the  people  must 
know  of  the  letter  which  LaRoche  carried. 
By  one  of  those  coincidences  so  ironical  and  frequent 
they  met  most  of  the  parties  interested  in  the  letter 
Mr.  O  Grady  came  out  of  the  post-office  ani  greeted 
them,  o'd  Winthrop  hobbled  by,  and  Regina  with  her 
father  flew  past  in  a  sleigh.  LaRoche  thinking  of 
his  letter  paid  no  heed. 

The  hoase-kitchen  was  a  welcome  spot  on  such  a 
night.  The  wood  stove  threw  out  its  grateful  heat  on 
the  small  neat  room  which  Madame  LaRoche  kept 
always  in  spotless  condition.  The  kerosene  lamp,  a 
dolphin  erect  on  his  tail  in  the  attempt  to  swallow  a 
glass  bowl,  was  lighted  and  standing  on  its  red  knit 
cushion.  The  altar  to  the  Mother  of  God,  with  blue, 
red  and  yellow  cardlesticks,  the  crucifix  above  it,  the 
holy  water  bottle  and  the  blessed  candle  beside  it  had 
its  proper  corner.  The  rag  carpet  was  madame's  own 


40 

weaving.  The  rosebushes  and  geraniums  on  the 
shelf  were  her  particular  care.  This  was  the  room  in 
which  for  fifteen  years  she  had  wept  and  prayed  for 
the  vindication  of  her  son.  Hugh  when  he  looked  on 
her  calm  worn  face  thought  suddenly  of  his  own  mo- 
ther and  felt  a  pity  that  was  new  to  him  for  the  woman. 
Her  face  now  was  joyful,  but  alas  it  would  never  lose 
the  expression  of  sorrow  fixed  there  by  long  grieving. 
Joy  only  lighted  it  strongly,  but  could  not  dispel  the 
lines  of  grief.  After  all,  he  thought,  it  was  only  fair 
that  the  DeLaunays  should  taste  the  woe  they  had 
dealt  to  others.  Madame  LaRoche  gravely  welcomed 
Hugh.  She  regarded  him  highly. 

"  I  want  you,"  said  La  Roche,  "  to  read  the  letter 
to  t^e  ol'  woman.  You  see  I  only  tol'  her  'ow  it  was. 
I'm  rot  a  good  reader  you  know.  But  I  made  it  out 
for  myself.  You  kin  give  it  to  her  straight." 

He  was  nervous  and  could  not  speak  without  tremb- 
ling. When  he  handed  the  letter  to  Hugh  his  hands 
shook.  The  poor  mother  fixed  her  eyes  on  it  with 
an  expression  that  went  to  Hugh's  heart.  Her  sole 
hope  was  there.  The  captain  locked  the  door  and 
read  in  a  low  tone  the  strange  story  which  Amedee 
La  Roche  had  written  in  distant  Texas. 

"  Dear  father  and  mother,"  it  began,  "  I  don't  know 
how  to  write  this  letter.  I  am  afraid  of  myself  since 
I  received  Mr.  Sullivan's  letter.  He  told  me  the 
whole  story,  how  that villain  DeLaunay  " — 

"  He  forgot  himself,"  said  the  father. 

u  Who  could  blame  'im."  answered  the  mother  bow- 
ing to  the  crucifix  over  the  altar. 
— "gave  out  that  I  had  stolen  over  three  thousand 
dollars,"   Hugh  continued.     "  And  so  everyone  has 


believed.  That  is  what  the  fellows  from  Saranac  that 
I  met  out  here  meant  when  they  said  puzzling  things 
to  me.  But  I  must  tell  my  own  story  at  once,  that 
you  and  mother  may  know  the  exact  truth.  Poor 
mother,  what  she  must  have  suffered  for  me  only  God 
will  ever  know." 

Madame  LaRoche  bent  her  head  and  resolutely 
held  back  the  tears  that  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"  Mon  pauvre  fils,"  she  thought,  "c'est  lui  qui  a 
souflert." 

"  Here  is  the  truth  about  the  money  I  was  said  to 
have  stolen  from  the  firm.  The  week  before  I  left  I 
had  been  drinking  pretty  hard,  and  gambling,  too, 
and  most  of  my  money  had  gone  that  way.  I  was 
not  short  in  my  accounts.  I  had  not  taken  one  cent 
from  the  firm.  I  never  did.  Often  when  I  was  out 
of  money  I  took  ten  or  twenty  dollars  from  the  safe. 
Both  members  of  the  firm  knew  it.  I  have  taken  as 
high  as  fifty  dollars,  and  they  did  not  object. 

"  When  I  got  out  this  time  I  took  fifty  dollars  and 
spent  it  quickly  on  drink.  Then  I  took  fifty  moTe. 
It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  I  went  to 
the  office  to  take  the  second  fifty.  I  was  half  drunk, 
but  I  had  my  senses.  I  had  no  idea  of  stealing.  The 
boys  were  waiting  for  me  in  the  saloon.  I  knew  I 
could  pay  it  back  in  the  morning.  I  did  not  feel  like 
a  thief.  I  never  stole  in  my  life.  You  remember 
that  well " 

"  Remember,"  said  LaRoche,  with  a  sudden  burst 
of  feeling.  "He  was  the  honeses'  boy,  Hugh,  that 
you  never  saw.  He  might  drink  an'  gamble,  but  it 
went  agin  his  gram  to  steal." 

"  I  did  not  light  the  lamp.     I  went  straight  to  the 


safe,  and  with  a  candle  to  see  by  opened  it  and  took 
out  the  money.  There  was  yet  two  hundre  I  dollars 
there.  When  I  closed  the  safe  and  timed  round  to 
go  out  there  was  DeLaunay  standing  with  a  pistol 
pointed  at  me.  '  You  thief,'  he  said." 

Madame  LaRoche  gave  a  slight  shriek,  and  her 
husband  to  keep  back  the  oath  that  sprang  to  his 
lips  gripped  the  back  of  his  chair. 

"  I  am  no  thief,"  I  said.  "  I  have  a  right  to  be 
hrre.  I  have  taken  a  ^undred  dollars,  but  I  shall  put 
it  back  w)  en  it  is  wanted  " 

'•You  go  to  jail  this  moment,"  he  said,  keeping  the 
pistol  pointed  at  me.  "  You  are  a  common  burglar. 
I  have  caught  you  m  the  act  of  breaking  into  this 
office  and  stealing  from  this  safe.  You  will  get  five 
.}ears  in  Dannemora  for  this.  You  must  come  with 
me  row  to  the  constable.  If  you  try  to  escape  I  will 
shoot  you." 

"Then  I  thought  of  you,  mother,  and  my  heart 
fa'led.  I  begged  of  him  for  your  sake  to  let  me  off. 
J  offered  to  work  a  year  without  wages  if  he  would 
let  me  go.  He  would  not.  I  was  getting  ready  to  do 
something  desperate  when  he  said,  '  Your  parents  are 
decent  people,  you  are  a  disgrace  to  them.  If  you 
will  start  at  once  for  Texas,  and  have  no  communica- 
tion with  your  friends  for  a  year  you  can  go  1  was 
glad  to  get  such  an  offer.  He  provided  me  with 
money  for  my  fare,  but  warned  me  if  I  broke  the 
conditions  he  would  clap  me  in  o  jail  at  any  time." 

"  I  went  past  our  house  on  my  way  to  the  railroad, 
and  saw  the  light  in  the  kitchen." 

"  It  was  this  very  lamp,"  said  Madame. 

"I  knew  you  were  waiting  for  me,  mother,  as  you 


43 

always  did,  even  when  I  wis  worst.     I  wanted  to  go 
in  and  kiss  you  good-bye,  hut  DeLaunay  had  forbid 
den  it.     I  looked  in  the  window  and  saw  you  sitting 
there  with  your  beads  in  your  hand,  waiting  to  hear 
my  knock,  and  it  broke  my  heart,  mother,  to  think 
how  long  you  might  wait   and  never  hear  it  again 
Then  you  looked  up,  and  for  fear  that  you  might  see 
my  face,  I  stole  away." 

"  But  I  saw  it,  man  Dieu"  cried  out  Madame,  tears 
of  anguish  streaming  down  her  face.  She  rose  and 
went  to  the  window  to  point  out  the  very  pane  against 
which  the  wind  had  piled  high  the  snow. 

"  I  saw  his  face  'ere,"  she  said  ;  "  I  thought  it  was 
a  ghost.  Wen  he  not  come  back  that  night,  nex' 
mornin'  I  said  my  boy  is  dead." 

She  returned  to  her  seat,  drying  her  eyes.  Cap- 
tain Li  Roche  put  another  log  in  the  stove. 

"  I  was  on  the  boat  then,"  he  said, "  but  the  women- 
folks said  she  took  on  terrible.  She  was  al'ays  cer- 
tain of  seein'  the  face  agin  the  glass.  It  seems  now 
she  did/' 

Hugh  resumed  his  reading. 

"  T  got  to  Texas,  and  have  stayed  here  ever  since. 
I  had  a  hope,  that  my  stay  here  would  not  be  long. 
I  tried  to  be  good  for  a  while,  but  when  hope  went  I 
got  reckless.  I  have  been  anything  but  a  good  man, 
mother.  But  when  I  got  Mr.  Sullivan's  letter,  and 
when  I  read  of  the  lies  told  about  me  in  Saranac  I 
felt  that  God  was  punishing  me  for  my  sins  " 

"  I  took  one  hundred  dollars.  I  did  not  steal  them. 
If  DeLaunay  says  I  took  three  thousand  dollars  he 
lies.  He  took  the  money  himself,  and  then  laid  it  to 
me.  That  was  why  he  sent  me  to  Texas.  That  was 


44 

why  he  sent  me  letters  without  date  or  name  threat- 
ening me  if  I  came  back  I  would  go  to  jail.  I  un- 
derstand it  well.  Now,  father,  you  must  try  to  get 
me  back.  If  I  stay  in  Texas  much  longer  I  will  die. 
I  have  been  to  confession  and  communion.  I  have 
a  new  scapular.  I  am  trying  by  praying  to  God  to 
get  justice.  Oh,  how  I  have  suffered  for  fifteen  years, 
for  what  I  never  did  " 

Madame  LaRoche  could  control  herself  no  longer, 
and  burst  into  violent  sobbing,  the  father  was  silent 
and  busied  himself  with  the  fire.  The  letter  ended  at 
this  point  abruptly  with  an  appeal  for  an  immediate 
answer.  There  was  sorrowful  silence  for  a  long  time. 
When  Madame  was  calm  once  more  LaRoche  said  : 

"  Any  way,  ol'  woman,  you're  satisfied  with  your 
boy  that  he  ain't  no  thief." 

"  I  knew  he  wasn't,  always," 

"An'  to  morrow  after  I  get  Mr.  DeLaunay  arrested," 
he  said  to  Hugh,  "you  k:n  write  an'  tell  the  boy 
we're  doin'  what  we  kin  to  help  him." 

Hugh  did  not  reply  except  by  a  nod  of  his  hear*. 
He  had  seen  the  expression  on  the  Captain's  face  as 
he  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  carefully  in  his  pocket,  a 
half  smile  around  tne  lips,  anger  and  agony  in  the 
eyes  and  the  lines  of  the  face,  violent  determination 
in  the  glance  he  gave  the  letter.  To  turn  him  from 
any  purpose  formed  under  such  emotion  would  be  a 
thankless  task.  He  simply  said : 

"  You  must  not  be  in  a  hurry,  whatever  you  do  " 

"  That's  true,"  answered  the  pilot  quietly.  "  I've 
waited  nigh  onto  fifteen  years.  Not  much  of  a  hurry 
is  it?" 

"A  mistake  now  would  add  fifteen  years  to  that.'' 


45 

"  Oh,  I'll  get  a  lawyer.  It'll  cost  money,  but  if  it 
took  every  cent  I  have  that  man  must  pay  for  what 
he  did.'' 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  my  advice,"  said  Hugh, 
after  doing  some  rapid  thinking. 

"  Not  if  it  goes  agin  arrestin'  Mr.  DeLaunay." 

"That  is  not  the  way  to  talk,  Joe,"  said  Madame 
severely.  "Mr.  Sullivan  is  our  friend.  Do  as  he 
says.  We  can  wait  some  more.  Don't  get  mad  w'en 
Amedee  is  all  right." 

"  You  see,"  said  Hugh,  having  no  doubt  whatever 
of  DeLaunay's  guilt,  "  when  DeLaunay  put  this 
caarge  on  your  son  he  insisted  on  his  seeing  none  of  his 
friends  for  a  year.  I  don't  know  much  about  the  case, 
but  I  suspect  he  wished  to  fix  everything  in  that  year 
so  that  Amedee  could  never  prove  anything  against 
him  He  is  a  rich  man  now.  The  books  that  Amedee 
kept  you  remember  were  all  falsified.  He  may  have 
destroyed  these  books.  Suppose  you  arrest  him  to- 
morrow, and  a  trial  takes  place  next  week  Where  are 
your  witnesses?  Who  is  going  to  prove  that  De- 
Launay stole  the  money  and  put  the  crime  on  your 
son  ?  And  if  the  case  is  thrown  out,  what  will  pre- 
vent him  from  getting  damages  out  of  you,  and  taking 
away  your  property  ?  " 

The  good  sense  of  this  came  home  to  La  Roche 
and  angered  him  the  more  against  the  man  wh«se 
position  in  spite  of  his  crime  wis  yet  so  strong. 

"If  he  did  that,"  he  answered  swinging  the  iron 
poker  suggestively,  "  I  would  kill  him  " 

Madame  LaRoche  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
bowed  in  apology  to  the  crucifix. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  mean  I'd  do  such  a  thing,"  said 


46 

her  husband  with  a  nervous  laugh,  "  but  I  would  feel 
like  it.  A  poor  man  'as  no  show  agin  a  rich  one.  I 
know  that." 

"I  don't,"  Hugh  replied  shortly,  "but  the  poor 
man  must  use  his  wits  and  his  money,  and  not  fight 
when  he's  sure  to  get  whipped." 

After  long  hesitation  aad  thought  LaRoche  said, — 

"  Wat  would  you  advise  me  t«  do  ?" 

"  See  the  priest.  He's  tke  safest  mati  to  take  ad- 
vice from." 

The  frown  on  LaRoche's  brow  lightened.  For  a 
moment  he  had  suspected  Hugh  of  an  intention  to 
turn  him  from  his  purpose.  He  became  frank  once 
more,  and  allowed  Hugh  to  talk  freely  on  the  best 
way  to  attack  DeLaunay.  Delay  was  all  the  young 
man  wanted.  He  could  not  see  his  way  clearly  to 
helping  Regina,  because  he  felt  that  justice  must  be 
done  the  poor  vagabond  in  Texas,  and  this  suffering 
household  How  to  do  it  with  as  little  disgrace  for 
Regina  as  possible  was  his  problem.  It  ocrurred  to 
him  that  if  once  old  David  Winthrop  g»t  these  facts 
in  his  hands,  nothing  would  save  DeLaunay  from  the 
penalty  of  his  crime. 

"  The  pries',"  said  LaReche,  "  is  a  good  man.  I 
think,  ol'  woman,  I'll  go  up  an*  talk  with  him  to-mor- 
row." 

"  He  is  our  true  friea',"  said  Madame.  "  He  'as 
al'ays  said  with  us,  *  Your  poor  boy  is  innocent.'  " 

"  I  think  we  owe  'ira  s»me  p«w  rent,  an'  I  km 
bring  it  up  to  'im  at  the  same  time.  I'll  go  up  the 
irst  thing  in  the  moniin'," 

"  Would  you  like  to  hare  me  go  with  you  ?"  said 
Hugh. 


47 

"  It  would  be  the  best  thing  for  me/'  LaRorhe  an- 
swered readily.  "  Abc»ut  ten  o'clock's  the  time,  an'  I 
km  meet  you  at  the  hotd.** 

Madame  had  begun  to  light  all  the  candles  on  the 
litt'e  altar,  and  when  Hugh  went  to  the  door  the  room 
was  in  a  blaze  of  light. 

"  On  doit  remercier  le  feen  Dieu  pour  ses  graces," 
she  said  to  her  husband.  "  II  a  trouve"  notre  fils." 

"  Good  night,"  said  the  Captain. 

"Mille  remerciments,  Monsieur  Sullivan,"  said 
Madame  with  deep  emotion. 

"  Pas  de  quoi,"  Hugh  answered,  stopping  to  take  a 
second  look  at  the  little  altar  "  Say  a  prayer  for  me 
there  please.  Prayers  must  be  heard  from  such  a 
beautiful  shrine  as  that.  Good  night." 

He  plunged  into  the  storm.  The  fine,  dry  snow 
dashed  into  his  face  as  he  went  up  the  street.  A 
sleigh  laden  with  furs  stood  before  a  residence,  and 
Regina  DeLaunay  was  coming  down  the  steps  to  take 
a  seat  in  it.  She  did  not  recognize  him  in  the  dark 
ness  and  storm.  He  was  studying  at  that  moment 
what  possible  plan  could  be  devised  to  save  her  from 
shame  and  yet  restore  to  honor  and  usefulness  the 
poor  exile  in  Texas. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

VENGEANCE  BELAYED 

A  sleepless  night  left  Captain  La  Roche  with  con- 
fused ideas  and  disturbed  emotions.  At  first  it 
seemed  the  right  thing  to  do,  to  consult  the  priest.  But 
he  had  dreamed  of  his  boy  tramping  through  Texa<=, 
after  all  his  education  and  the  promise  of  his  youth  ; 


48 

he  feared  Hugh  Sullivan  was  not  interested  enough 
in  proving  his  boy's  innocence,  being  a  friend  of  De 
Launay  and  a  friend  of  the  priest.  How  could  he 
trust  these  people  until  I^eLaunay  was  safely  in  jail. 
He  told  his  wife  this. 

"  Mr.  DeLaunay  won't  stay  long  in  jail,"  she  re- 
plied. "  He  can  give  bail  for  thousands." 

"  Anyway  I'm  going  to  have  him  arrested,"  he  said. 
"Then  I  can  see  the  priest  afterwards." 

Madame  did  not  attempt  to  change  the  will  of  the 
stubborn  pilot.  She  was  arranging  the  table  for  break- 
fast, and  now  began  to  ligkt  the  candles  on  the  altar. 

''  What  again  !"  cried  LaRoche.  "  Is  this  a  church 
we  have.  But  we  cannot  take  up  a  collection  every 
Sunday  ta  pay  for  candles."  He  spoke  in  French 
seriously.  Nevertheless  he  knelt  down  beside  her  to 
say  his  prayers  and  thank  God  for  restoring  to  him 
his  son.  The  door  opened  while  they  were  praying, 
and  Sol  Tuttle  came  in  with  a  blast  of  wind  and  snow 
which  put  out  most  of  the  candles.  He  dropped  on 
his  knees  and  waited  until  they  had  ended. 

"  Reckon  you're  late  or  I'm  early,"  said  Sol  com- 
fortably seating  himself.  He  was  thoroughly  at  home 
in  LaRoche's  company,  and  lighted  his  pipe  imme- 
diately. "  I  hadn't  said  any  prayers  so  fur,  but  I  hev 
hed  breakfast.  So  jes'  pitch  in  an'  don't  mind  me. 
This  idee  oi  a  altar  in  the  house  strikes  me  as  pretty 
cute,  Joe.  Yo»  can't  forgit  your  prayers  even  if  you 
wanted  to.' 

"  It's  the  taste  of  the  women  folks,"  LaRoche  ex- 
plained. 

•«  It's  the  best  o'  taste,1'  said  Sol.  "  I  know  you 
hain't  got  no  such  taste,  cap'in,  'cause  you're  bringin' 


49 

up  wan't  jes'  what  it  hed  ought  to  be.  T  belmve  in 
prayer,  m'  I  reckon  I  believe  in  altars,  too,  s'long  as 
Mrs  La  Roche  hes  faith  in  'em." 

"  I  'ave  a  little  news  for  you  this  mornin,'  "  said  La 
Roche  with  gravity.  "  It's  big  news  for  us,  an'  we're 
goin'  to  keep  it  quite  for  a  time.  I  'ad  a  letter  from 
Amedee  yestiddy,  an'  he  says  he  didn't  steal  no  three 
thousand  dollars,  an'  he's  soon  comin'  home  to  prove 
who  did,  an'  I'm  thinkitt*  cf  arrestin'  Mr.  DeLaunay 
for  puttin'  up  a  job  »n  the  boy  for  a  thing  he  never 
did." 

Madame  LaRoche  was  not  surprised  at  this  out- 
burst before  an  old  friend  of  the  family.  The  captain 
attacked  his  breakfast  savagely  while  talkimg,  and  en- 
joyed the  surprise  expressed  in  his  friend's  face. 

Sol  had  laid  aside  his  pipe  for  a  moment,  and  was 
adjusting  the  information  to  his  emotions. 

"  That  beats  me  holler,"  he  said. 

Time  had  already  beaten  Sol  so  hollow  that  it  was 
difficult  to  conceive  »t  anything  which  ceuld  increase 
his  hollowness.  He  resumed  his  smoking. 

"  Better  tell  him,  too,"  said  Madam  shrewdly,  "that 
Mr.  Sullivan  advised  ye  t&  go  to  the  priest  afore  you 
did  anything  else." 

"  So  he  did,"  asserted  LaRoche,  "  an'  I'm  net  go- 
in'."  Sol  laid  down  his  pipe  hastily. 

"  Yes  you  are  gein'  to  the  priest,"  said  he  with  such 
earnestness  that  the  captain  laughed.  "  Yes,  you  are 
a  goin'  to  the  priest,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  too,  for  to  take 
the  pledge  that  I  broke  last  month.  Joe,  it  don't  be 
come  you  to  talk  so  slightin'  of  a  good  man.  He 
oughter  hev  known  this  news  about  little  Amedee 
afore  us  all." 


Madame  LaRoche  smiled  to  herself  at  this  emphatic 
expression  of  opinion. 

"  You  think  so,"  said  LaRoche  irritably. 

"  There  air  a  class  o'  men,"  Sol  answered  after  a 
long  pause,  "  like  the  condemned  pickerel  we  ketch 
out  on  the  bridge,  all  mouth;  jest  the  same,  they  don't 
know  how  to  choose  their  vittles.  In  other  words 
they  don't  know  a  good  thing  when  they  see  it." 

<k  Well,  we  can  go,  it  won't  do  no  one  no  harm," 
said  the  captain,  "  but  I  mean  to  arrest  DeLaunay 
anyway,  an'  make  him  tell  jes'  what  he  did  to  my 
boy  in  front  o'  the  hull  town." 

"  You  got  a  mighty  big  contract  on  hand,"  Sol  re- 
plied, "  not  but  what  it  oughter  be  done.  But  I'd 
rayther  contract  to  land  twenty  black  bass  an  hour  in 
this  ere  weather  than  to  hev  enything  to  do  with 
bringin'  DeLaunay  to  court." 

The  two  men  went  together  to  the  residence  of  the 
parish  priest  discussing  this  point.  LaRoche  made  a 
show  of  stopping  at  the  hotel  to  look  for  Hugh  Sulli- 
van, and  not  seeing  him  after  a  half  glance  around 
hurried  away  much  relieved.  His  suspicions  of 
Hugh  were  growing  stronger.  Seated  in  a  convenient 
corner  Hugh  saw  his  behavior  and  did  not  attempt 
to  show  himself.  He  was  satisfied  that  the  priest 
would  give  LaRoche  much  stronger  advice  than  he 
desired. 

The  snow  was  deep  and  the  walk  to  the  church 
toilsome  and  difficult.  Streets  were  blocked  up,  the 
church  was  remote  from  the  center  of  the  village,  the 
wind  blew  hard.  The  veterans  scarcely  noticed  these 
things.  All  around  the  church  and  residence  lay 
immense  drifts  of  snow,  and  the  northwest  wind  was 


51 

adding  constantly  to  the  heap.  They  rang  the  bell  at 
the  office-door,  and  were  admitted  to  a  small  well- 
furnished  room,  smelling  of  comforf.  Father  Mc- 
Manus  was  at  home,  and  came  in  promptly,  in  cassock 
and  barretta,  a  plump,  brisk,  plain-featured  man  of  a 
pleasant  manner. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  LaRoche ;  Mr.  Tuttle,  I  am 
glad  to  see  you." 

Then  he  sat  down  and  waited  for  the  matter  of  their 
visit  to  be  introduced. 

4<  We  both  have  a  little  business  with  you,"  said  the 
captain,  "  but  I  guess,  Sol,  you'd  better  put  in  yours 
now  as  it  is  the  shortest." 

"  I  come  up  to  take  the  pledge  for  a  year,"  said 
Sol  briefly. 

"You  broke  the  last  one  too  soon,"  said  the 
p-iest. 

"  I'll  allow  I  did,  Mr.  McManus,  an1  I  allow  also 
that  Sairey  wuz  ez  much  to  blame  at  the  start  ez  I 
wuz.  It  wa'n't  her  fault  neither.  It  wa'n't  mine  at 
the  start,  but  you  see  I  come  home  wet  one  day,  an' 
took  a  fit  o'  shiverin',  an'  she  packed  me  right  to  bed, 
piled  on  the  blankets,  aa'  brought  me  some  hot 
whisky. 

*•  Sez  I,  '  Sairey,  I  won't  take  it,  sez  she,  Sol  you've 
g->t  to.  I  admire  your  pluck,  sez  she,  but  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  nuss  you  through  another  spell  o'  rheumatiz, 
sez  she,  and  pay  more  money  for  doctor's  bill  an' 
medicine  than  you'd  spend  in  whisky  in  three  years. 
Well,  sez  I,  if  you  say  so,  I'll  drink  it,  but  you've  got 
to  take  the  consequences.  I  must  say,  Mr.  McManus, 
I  was  kinder  reconciled  to  it.  Sairey  dosed  me  putty 
well  for  three  days.  Then  I  was  well,  an'  if  I'd  a- 


52 

stopped  thar,  I  reckon  things  would  have  been  squar. 
I  didn't  stop.  I  went  on  a  three  days'  toot,  an'  I 
broke  Sairey  up.  She  cried  and  scolded,  and  be 
tween  us  we  made  life  right  mis'able.  Sez  I  yistiday, 
I've  hed  enough.  This  thing  hez  got  to  stop.  So  I 
come  up  here  to  do  what  I  think  is  right,  an'  to  take 
the  pledge." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  priest,  "just  go  down 
on  your  knees  and  repeat  these  words  after  me 
please." 

"  I  promise  the  Almighty  God  that  for  one  year  I 
will  abstain  from  all  intoxicating  drinks,  and  that  I 
will  do  my  best  to  discountenance  the  use  of  liquor  in 
others.  Amen." 

Sol  repeated  the  first  part  of  the  pledge,  but  at  the 
second  part  hesitated  and  looked  at  LaRoche  who 
fidgetted  in  his  chair. 

"  You  see,"  the  latter  explained,  "he  sells  liquor." 

"  Last  year  if  you'll  remember,"  said  Sol,  "  I  said 
that  part  another  way." 

"  Do  you  keep  a  saloon,"  asked  the  priest 

"  No,  I'm  glad  to  say  I  don't.  I  supply  a  few 
friends  with  whisky  from  Canada.  I  don't  trade  with 
hard  drinkers,  o»ly  with  respectable  people.  I  km 
promise  to  discourage  any  but  those  I  trade  with. 
There  aint  no  need  o'  discouragin'  them,  for  they're 
sober  decent  people." 

The  pledge  was  so  given,  and  Sol  rose  fr«m  his 
kn'es. 

"  I'm  thankful  to  ye,  Mr.  McManus,  an'  I'm  comin' 
up  sometime  to  hear  you  preach  "  he  said.  "  I've 
haern  ye're  a  tip-top  preacher,  am  I  believe  in  preach- 
in'.  " 


53 

"  Now  that  he's  done  I'd  like  to  pay  ye  last  quarter's 
pew-rent,  father,"  said  the  captain,  eager  to  let  his 
ffiend  understand  that  he  supported  the  church. 

This  business  was  promptly  despatched,  and 
then  LaRoche  told  his  story  slowly,  but  said  nothing 
of  his  intention  to  arrest  DeLaunay  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. He  simply  asked  Father  McManus  what  was 
the  best  thing  to  do  towards  helping  his  son  to  get 
back  his  good  name.  The  work  of  convincing  a  man 
of  LaRoche's  mental  power  that  a  certain  course  of 
action  ought  to  be  followed  is  herculean,  and  the 
priest  did  not  care  to  undertake  it.  He  did  not  think 
much  of  AmedeVs  letters,  and  was  more  than  doubt- 
ful of  DeLaunay's  guilt. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  for  you  to  do,"  he  said. 
"  Put  the  case  into  the  hands  ©f  a  good  lawyer,  and 
follow  his  advice.  You  have  I  think  hard  work  be- 
fore you." 

"  Why,"  asked  the  captaim. 

"  Yoa  must  get  proofs  ®f  all  that  your  sen  alleges. 
You  must  prove  that  DeLaunay  stole  the  three  thou- 
sand himself,  before  you  can  declare  Amedee  inno- 
cent. When  you  have  done  that  your  son's  reputa- 
tion is  as  bad  as  ever,  for  he  was  caught  committing  a 
burglary,  he  admits  that,  and  the  moment  DeLaunay 
hears  of  your  suspicions  of  him  he  will  drag  the  boy 
back  and  send  him  to  jail  for  years.  You  cam't  pre- 
vent that  you  know.  So  that  you  must  be  very  secret, 
very  slow,  and  get  the  best  lawyer  in  the  county  to 
do  everything.' 

The  captaia  was  staggered,  but  he  said  defiantly. 

"  I  am  goin'  to  have  DeLaunay  arrested  this 
morning.  I  can't  afford  to  pay  no  lawyer.  I'm  goin 


54 

to  let  the  law  do  what  it  can.     I  guess  it  will  do  him 
some  harm  anyway." 

The  priest  assented  with  a  gesture,  and  refused  to 
discuss  the  matter.  It  was,  he  said,  too  serious  a  case 
for  anyone  to  interfere  with  except  lawyers  and  officers 
of  the  law.  At  this  moment  the  door-bell  rang  and 
Hugh  Sullivan  apparently  nettled  at  being  laie  entered. 

"  I  came  upon  this  business  of  the  captain's,"  he 
said  to  the  priest  "  I  suppose  I  am  too  late." 

'•  The  father,"  answered  LaReche  stubbornly 
"  gives  me  the  same  advice  that  you  give.  But  all 
the  same  I'm  goin'  to  'ave  DeLaunay  arrested  to  day. 
My  son  'as  been  out  in  Texas  fifteen  years  because  of 
his  doin's.  My  ol'  woman  'as  cried  'er  eyes  out  al- 
most over  'im.  Is  these  things  goin'  to  be  done  on  a 
poor  man  by  a  rich  one,  an'  the  rich  one  to  go  free 
an'  suffer  nothin'  ?" 

"  LaRoche  is  naturally  sore  on  this  matter,"  said 
the  priest  to  Hugh,  "  and  a  little  wild.  I  have  ad- 
vised him  to  put  the  case  into  the  hands  of  a  good 
lawyer.  He  fears  it  will  cost  too  much,  when  it  can 
be  done  cheaply  some  other  way." 

"  There  is  no  need  of  a  lawyer,"  Hugh  said 
quickly.  "  What  we  want  to  find  out  is  if  the  old 
books  of  the  firm  of  Winthrop  &  DeLaunay  are  still  in 
existence.  These  books  were  said  to  be  so  fixed  by 
Amede"e  that  he  stole  three  thousand  before  he  was 
discovered.  The  false  entries  could  not  have  been 
made  by  him  if  he  be  innocent.  They  must  have 
been  made  by  DeLaunay  himself  in  the  items  which 
he  gave  to  his  clerk  for  copying.  I  can  hunt  up  these 
books  better  than  a  detective  It  will  cost  nothing, 
and  may  do  the  job  for  you,  captain." 


55 

*  You  ought  to  accept  Mr.  Sullivan's  help,''  the 
priest  urged.  "•  I  *  is  the  only  way  of  saving  your  son. 
If  you  arrest  Mr  DeLaunay  before  these  books  are 
found  he  will  destroy  them,  and  then  your  chances 
are  gone." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  the  pilot  replied  irritably,  "  you 
are  all  on  Mr.  DeLaunay 's  side.  You're  all  tryin'  to 
save  'im  from  what  he  ought  to  git." 

Hugh  took  up  his  hat  suddenly  and  the  priest  rose 

"  I  reckon  you  made  a  mistake  in  coming  here," 
said  Hugh  laughing.  "  What  you  want  is  some  one 
who  will  advise  you  to  hang  yourself  because  it  suits 
you  to  be  hanged.  Good-morning,  Father." 

La  Roche  stolidly  followed  him  out,  but  his  resolu- 
tion was  shaken. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  business,"  Hugh  asked 
of  the  priest  in  an  undertone  as  he  was  departing. 

"  Pure  nonsense  !    His  son  is  playing  on  him." 

"  Guess  I'll  have  to  do  what  you  all  say,"  LaRoche 
muttered  when  ihey  had  proceeded  some  distance. 
**  I'll  wait  while  you  look  for  the  books  " 

"No  you  won't,"  said  Hugh  shortly.  "If  you  cie- 
pend  on  me  to  manage  the  thing  for  you,  you  must 
put  the  whole  case  in  my  charge,  give  me  your  word 
you  will  say  nothing  about  it  to  any  one,  and  do  just 
what  I  tell  you  from  first  to  last.  Don't  think  I  am 
going  into  what  may  prove  a  nasty  business,  and  leave 
you  to  smash  the  whole  shop  when  you  feel  like  it." 

LaRoche  glared  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  re- 
lapsed into  thought.  His  slow  mind  was  a  long  time 
getting  to  the  point  of  view  which  made  Hugh's  offer 
appear  advantageous  as  well  as  economical. 

"All  right,"  he  said  at  length.     "I'll  do  it.     I 


56 

promise  everything.  You  go  ahead  and  c'o  what  you 
like.  You  were  all  agin  me,  an' if  you  make  mistakes 
let  Amed6e  blame  you.  But  I  don't  like  to  do  it." 

Hugh  was  satisfied  and  very  much  relieved.  He 
would  like  to  get  hold  of  AmedeVs  letter  as  a  guar- 
anty of  LaRoche's  good  faith,  but  to  ask  it  would 
only  rouse  his  suspicions.  He  said  as  they  parted : 

"  To  make  sure  of  your  word  give  that  letter  to 
your  wife,  and  have  her  put  it  under  lock  and  key. 
Then  you  won't  be  tempted  to  show  it  to  any  one." 

"  I  kin  keep  my  word  an'  the  letter,  too,"  said  the 
cantain  savagely.  Hugh  felt  that  he  had  blundered 
In  hurting  LaRoche's  pride,  but  it  did  not  trouble 
him.  It  was  one  of  his  deficiencies  that  he  could  not 
understand  what  great  effects  may  result  from  little 
things. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

AFTER   THE   PLAY. 

Hugh  felt  cheerful  in  having  gained  a  respite  for 
Regina.  It  was  something  of  a  triumph,  for  the  jeal 
ous  and  suspicious  nature  of  LaRoche  was  difficult  to 
soothe  and  control.  He  took  care  during  the  week 
to  see  him  and  his  good  wife  often  that  good  disposi- 
tions might  not  weaken.  He  hardly  kne  v  what  his 
next  move  would  be.  His  aim  was  to  do  Regina  a 
service.  She  was  a  fine  girl,  and  did  not  deserve  to 
be  included  ia  the  disgrace  that  would  fall  upon  her 
father.  Hugh  was  not  given  to  studying  himself,  al- 
though net  unaware  of  hi?  own  good  points  in  busi- 
ness matters.  Therefore  he  never  asked  why  he  took 
so  friendly  an  interest  in  the  DeLaunays.  Had  an- 


57 

other  questioned  him  he  would  have  answered  promptly 
and  truly,  '  When  a  man  is  in  a  scrape,  and  I  can  help 
him  out  I  never  refuse  rny  help.'  Had  it  been  sug- 
gested that  Miss  DeLaunay's  charms  might  explain 
his  readiness  he  would  have  laughed  and  said,  "  You 
are  right  A  fellow  likes  to  help  a  pretty  girl  above 
all  things."  This  was  precisely  his  mental  condition 
now,  and  his  only  thought  was  the  scheme  which  must 
satisfy  both  parties.  He  was  sufficiently  elated  with 
'his  success  and  his  hopes  to  make  the  next  few  days 
very  pleasant  for  his  loved  Elise  and  Remi ;  so  pleas- 
ant in  fact  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  said  to  her  daughter  in 
heart  broken  accents. 

"  He's  gone.  He's  engaged  to  her.  Wor=e  an' 
worse  !  You  married  a  Frinchman,  an'  he  married  a 
Prodestan'.  What's  the  Sullivans  comin'  to  at  all,  at 
all" 

Mr.  Grady  heard  this  complaint  also  and  rejoiced.  He 
first  drew  up  philosophical  consolation  for  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

"  This  counthry,  ma'am,"  said  he,  while  the  old 
lady  almost  transfixed  him  with  her  eye,  "is  already 
a  conglomeration — " 

"  The  Lord  save  us,"  under  her  breath. 

"Of  divers  races,  the  Frinch,  the  Germans,  the 
Italians,  the  Negroes,  the  Irish  and  so  forth.  Now  do 
ye  suppose  that  these  people  are  going  to  stay  Frinch 
an'  German  an'  Irish  all  their  life  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  they  couldn't,  Misther  Grady. 
I'm  forty  years  in  the  counthry  an'  I'm  as  Irish  to- 
day as  the  day  I  kem  into  it." 

"  Is  your  daughther  the  same  ?  Isn't  she  Mrs.  La- 
jeunesse  now,  ma'am?  An' your  grandchildren,  are 
they  Irish  ?  " 


58 

Mrs.  Sullivan  was  dumbfounded  for  an  instant. 

"  That's  the  way  it  s  gom'  to  be  all  through  the 
counthry,"  continued  Mr.  Grady,  "  they'll  mix  an'  mix 
until  there's  nothin'  left  of  the  constituent  elements 
but  pure  American.  So  I  don't  see  why  Hugh 
shouldn't  make  up  to  Miss  DeLaunay.  She's  a 
Piodestan',  that's  thrue.  But  take  my  word  for  it  if 
she  marries  Hugh  it  '11  be  before  the  priest.  Sure 
DeLaunay  himself  is  a  Catholic." 

"Well,  constitution  elements  or  no  constitution 
elements,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan.''  "I  don't  want  any 
more  mixin'  in  mine.  I've  had  too  much  of  it,  an'  I 
don't  thank  any  man  to  put  sich  notions  as  you  have, 
Tim  Grady,  into  my  son's  head.  He's  bad  enough 
without  'em." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  put  any  notions  into  his  head,  ma'am, 
but  what's  the  blessed  truth.  He's  a  dacent  boy,  an' 
I  hope  ye  11  have  him  long  wid  ye.  But  boys  will  be 
boys,  ma'am,  an'  the  day  comes  whin  they  go  away  to 
their  own  houses,  an'  lave  the  old  folks  to  do  as  God 
wishes." 

Mr.  Grady  mindful  of  his  own  long  departed  chil- 
dren wiped  his  eyes.  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  softened. 

'  Fhrue  for  you,"  she  said,  *'  it's  nothin'  but  come 
an'  go  wid  us  all " 

Then  Mr.  Grady  departed  after  advising  the  old 
lady  on  the  method  of  dealing  with  her  children.  He 
took  his  way  to  the  modest  house  of  LaRoche.  It 
was  storming  as  usual :  storm  was  the  normal  condition 
of  the  winter  weather  in  Saranac.  It  made  the  cozy  kit- 
chen of  Madame  LaRoche  only  the  cosier  and  brighter. 
The  kettle  was  singing  on  the  stove,  there  was  to  be 
hot  punch  to  night ;  once  in  the  week  Madame  al- 


59 

lowed  the  men  this  pleasure.  In  the  bed-room  the 
table  was  prepared  for  a  game  of  draughts  or  of  cards 
Such  vanities  were  not  tolerated  in  the  room  where 
the  aUar  stood.  Tim  sat  down  with  a  deep  sense  of 
comfort.  No  festivity  that  the  great  house  might 
provide  for  its  guests  could  touch  his  heart  like  a  quiet 
game  in  the  bed-room  with  the  kettle  singing  a  coming 
pleasure  in  his  ears  ard  the  storm  roaring  outside. 
His  authonty  on  all  matters  was  unquestioned  in  this 
house  The  captain  and  his  wife  looked  upon  h;m  as 
infallible.  Secretly  Mr.  Grady  thought  they  were 
right  in  so  regarding  him.  He  had  never  made  a  mis- 
take in  his  life.  The  world  or  rather  the  univerre 
was  managed  on  a  theory  which  he  had  discovered 
and  made  his  own.  He  was  conscious  of  his  rare 
intimacy  w:th  Providence,  and  an  adept  in  explaining 
the  profound  language  which  he  used  in  foretelling  Its 
ways  For  like  all  prophets  of  this  kind  he  sometimes 
mixed  his  facts,  only  to  find  later  that  had  his  language 
been  properly  interpreted  it  would  have  fitted  the 
facts.  Conscious  of  his  own  greatness  Mr  Grady  was 
therefore  fearless  and  calm  on  great  occasions,  and 
never  hesitated  to  oppose  himself  to  the  whole  world 

The  three  men,  for  Sol  was  one  of  the  party,  sat 
down  to  play  at  the  moment  the  curtaia  rose  for  the 
first  act  of  Ingomar  in  DeLaunay's  parlors.  The 
punch  glasses  were  regularly  filled  by  Madame  who 
laughed  and  prayed  by  turns  in  the  kitchen,  Her 
heart  was  full  of  joy  to  night,  although  a  little  heavy 
with  the  thought  of  distant  Texas.  Mr.  Grady  had 
prefaced  the  game  with  a  dissertation  on  card?  which 
led  to  a  discussion. 

"  Maybe  you  don't  know  row,"  said  he  to  Tuttle, 


6o 

"  that  cards  were  invented  first  to  please  an  ould  fool 
of  a  king,  an'  keep  him  from  murdher." 

"  I  had  an  idee  the  devil  invented  'em/  said  Sol, 
whose  pledge  against  all  intoxicating  liquors  was  sorely 
tried  this  evening. 

"  He's  used  thim  a  great  deal,"  assented  Mr. 
Grady,  "  which  only  shows  that  ould  Nick  knows  a 
good  thing  whin  he  sees  it.  But  I  don't  care  to  be 
talkin'  about  him.  Since  the  Fall  he's  been  close 
enough  to  every  soul  of  us  widout  wishin'  him  closer. 
There's  more  or  less  o'  the  divil  in  every  man  nowa- 
days." 

u  Then  he  didn't  invent  'em  ?" 

"  It's  hard  tellin'  what  he  didn't  invint,"  Mr.  Grady 
replied.  "  Since  the  Fall  he's  had  his  finger  in  every  pie." 

Sol  had  heard  of  the  Fall  and  had  a  physical  idea 
of  it,  believing  that  Paradise  was  situated  on  a  plateau, 
off  which  Adam  and  Eva  fell  to  strike  the  earth  with 
bruised  bodies  and  softened  brains.  He  had  often 
stated  his  belief  to  Mr.  Grady. 

"  It  was  nat'ral,"  he  thought,  "  an'  to  be  expected 
that  if  the  brains  of  the  first  man  and  woman  were  a 
little  soft  that  their  descendants'  brains  should  be 
somewhat  softer.  Then  when  Christ  came  He  hard- 
ened 'em  agin,  for  them  as  believed  in  Him.  An'  the 
more  you  believed  the  harder  yer  brains  got  to  be. 
An'  when  they  were  hard  enough  to  suit  Jehovah  you 
died,  an'  got  h'isted  back  to  Paradise.  The  hull  thing 
sounded  reasonable." 

"There's  only  wan  thing  against  it,"  Mr.  Grady 
said,  repressing  his  scorn,  "betthermen  have  given 
betther  reasons  for  the  Fall.  The  Scriptures  don't 
say  that  Paradise  was  on  a  precipice.  When  Adam 


6i 

fell  he  didn't  fall  off  anything.  He  fell  into  sin.  St 
Augustine  says,  an;  he's  not  to  be  named  in  the  wan 
breath  wid  the  Tuttles,  that  a  darkness  settled  on  our 
minds  an'  understandings,  an'  our  wills  got  weak,  an' 
we  turned  away  from  good  sinse.  That  is  why  some 
of  us  don't  know  any  betther  than  to  fish  for  a  livin', 
an'  get  dhrunk  for  fun." 

"  An'  play  keerds,"  said  Sol  composedly,  "  an'  think 
ourselves  better'n  our  neighbors,  an'  use  big  words  to 
cover  up  bare  spots,  an'  forgit  our  o<vn  sins  cos  we're 
so  all  fired  busy  a  rememberin'  otherses." 

Here  LaRoche  found  it  necessary  to  interfere  and 
turn  the  talk  into  another  channel.  The  captain  had 
been  in  a  peculiar  moo-1  the  whole  evening.  He  was 
debating  with  himself  whether  he  would  show  to  Tim 
Grady  his  son's  letter.  Tina  was  Amede"e  s  godfather, 
and  had  always,  to  the  Captain's  irritation,  believed  in 
the  boy's  guilt.  LaRoche  had  believed  it  himself,  but 
it  did  not  please  him  to  see  others  of  the  same  faith. 
It  would  be  worth  something  to  watch  Tim  Grady 
reading  the  letter  and  to  reminl  him  of  his  harshness 
to  his  godson.  But  his  promise  to  Hugh  Sullivan ! 
The  Captain  had  regard  for  his  pledged  word.  The 
punch,  however,  excited  him.  Madame  was  seated 
in  a  pathetic  attitude  near  the  altar,  and  he  called 
Tim's  attention  to  it. 

"  Thinkin'  of  poor,  innocent  Amede"e,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice. 

Mr.  Grady  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  He  was  innocent,''  said  the  Captain  roughly. 
This  assertion  not  only  conflicted  with  former  asser- 
tions of  Li  Roche,  it  also  attacked  Mr.  Grady's  theory 
of  the  management  of  the  universe 


62 

"  I  wish  I  could  believe  he  was,"  he  said  smiling. 

"  Read  that  an'  believe,"  cried  LaRoche  angrily ; 
"it  is  his  last  letter  to  me." 

The  cards  were  laid  aside  while  Mr.  Grady  read 
with  proper  slowness  the  first  word  and  the  last,  and 
then  examined  the  postmark. 

"  YouVe  had  it  a  good  bit   widout  doin'  anythin'." 

LaRoche,  to  justify  himself,  related  the  incidents 
of  the  last  few  days,  but  Mr.  Grady  was  not  listening. 
He  was  examining  his  utterances  for  the  past  fifteen 
years  on  Amedee's  guilt,  and  comparing  them  with 
the  statements  in  the  letter.  He  saw  at  once  a  safe 
interpretation.  The  boy  had  taken  some  money.  Mr. 
Grady  had  never  explicitly  stated  his  belief  that  he 
took  all.  In  fact,  if  his  memory  served  him  rightly, 
he  had  once  expressed  a  doubt  of  his  taking  so  large 
a  sum. 

"  This  letter,"  he  said,  takes  a  doubt  off  my  mind 
that  I  never  could  get  rid  of.  I  knew  that  Amedee 
had  taken  a  little,  but  I  never  could  make  myself  be- 
lieve he  stole  three  thousand  dollars." 

His  companions  listened  to  this  in  amazement. 
Mr.  Grady  folded  the  letter,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and 
went  for  his  hat  and  stick. 

"Where  are  you  a  goin'  with  it  ?''  said  the  Captain. 

"  Put  an  your  things,"  said  Tim  solemnly,  "  an' 
come  wid  me.  The  boy's  father  may  forget  him,  an' 
wait  days  an'  weeks  hefore  doin'  what  he  ought  to 
right  him.  But  his  godfather  isn't  that  kind  of  a  man. 
We're  goin'  sthraight  to  DeLaunay's.  We're  goin'  to 
read  this  letter  to  him.  Then  we'll  give  him  his 
choice  to  bring  the  boy  back  an'  clear  him,  or  stand 
the  consequences  " 


63 

Sol  and  the  Captain  gave  a  wild  hurrah  at  the 
strength  of  this  sentiment.  With  a  brief  explanation 
to  Madame,  the  two  went  out,  leaving  Sol  to  await 
their  return. 

The  orchestra  was  playing  before  the  last  act  in 
the  parlors  of  the  great  house.  The  play  had  been  a 
success,  and  the  Saranac  aristocracy  were  delighted 
It  was  a  mild  and  simple-hearted  aristocracy,  which 
admitted  all  claims  for  admission  to  its  ranks  provid- 
ed reputation  was  good.  It  was  not  too  hard  on 
such  members  as  were  naughty.  Regina  in  the  sim- 
ple Greek  costume  was  a  real  vision  of  loveliness  to 
them,  and  Hugh  as  a  ferocious  barbarian  chief  sent 
thrills  of  exquisite  terror  through  the  ladies.  The  out- 
come of  the  story  was  awaited  with  impatience  in  the 
last  act.  The  curtain  rose.  Hugh  in  a  Grecian  cos- 
tume, smooth-faced,  bewigged,  looked  not  less  hand- 
some than  in  his  skirs  and  armor  as  chief.  Mr.  Grady 
standing  with  the  captain  at  the  door  was  delighted  at 
his  appearance,  and  angered  also.  LaRoche,  weak- 
ening in  his  purpose  on  the  way  up,  had  told  him  of 
the  promise  to  Hugh,  and  Mr.  Grady  at  once  per- 
ceived the  reason  of  the  young  man's  behavior.  He 
denounced  him  unsparing^  He  was  trying  to  save 
DeLaunay  at  the  expense  of  an  innocent  man.  The 
audience  cast  a  surprised  glance  occasionally  at  the 
knotty  form  of  Mr.  Grady.  Hugh  saw  the  pair  from 
the  stage,  and  understood  instantly  what  had  hap- 
pened and  what  was  about  to  occur.  He  knew  Tim 
Grady  well  enough  to  feel  certain  there  would  be  a 
scene  as  soon  as  the  play  was  over,  perhaps  in  the 
very  middle  of  the  last  act.  If  that  catastrophe  were 
spared,  it  would  be  necessary  to  meet  Mr  Grady  more 


64 

than  half  way,  to  hustle  him  into  a  private  room  and 
keep  his  mind  busy  until  DeLaunay  could  be  pre- 
pared for  the  scene.  Else  Hugh  was  certain  Mr. 
Grady  would  gather  the  guests  around  him  and  read 
the  letter  which  was  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble. 

The  curtain  was  no  sooner  down  than  a  servant 
acting  under  Hugh's  orders  ushered  the  two  men 
into  DeLaunay's  private  study.  He  had  hardly  left 
them  when  Regina  entered  in  her  stage  costume  to 
make  papa's  excuses  for  delaying  them  and  to  charm 
Mr.  Grady  out  of  his  senses  by  her  sweet  voice  and 
manner.  She  did  not  know  why  she  was  entertaining 
him.  Hugh  had  said  to  her  as  she  was  leaving  the 
stage  : 

"  Go  straight  to  your  father's  study,  and  entertain 

the  two  old  men  you  will  find  there  until  your  father 

comes  in.      There  s  no  time  to   explain.      It  is  a 

serious  matter.     Keep  the  men  with  you  at  all  cost." 

She  obeyed  like  a  soldier. 

Hugh  followed  DeLaunay  to  his  dressing  room, 
and  said : 

"  There's  trouble  waiting  for  you  down  stairs.    Get 
on  your  togs  in  a  hurry,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 
The  elegant  gentleman  never  dressed  with  less  care 
than  on  this  occasion. 

"  Captain  LaRoche  had  a  letter  from  his  son  the 
other  day ''—  Mr.  DeLaunay  sat  down  with  a  ghastly 
face—"  that  gives  away  your  dealings  with  him  fifteen 
years  ago.  He  charges  you  with  saddling  a  crime  on 
him  His  father  is  going  to  have  it  out  with  you, 
a  d  his  godfather,  a  harder  man  to  deal  with,  is 
bound  to  make  you  pay  for  it.  What  are  you  going 
to  do?" 


65 

"  Do,"  gasped  the  man,  "  my  God,  I  must  get  out 
of  here  to-night,  this  very  minute.  I  am  lost.  The 
disgrace— it  means  imprisonment — you  can  help  me 
— I  will  take  a  freight  into  Montreal — " 

Gasping  and  trembling  so  that  he  could  hardly 
walk  he  tottered  to  the  wardrobe  and  began  to  put 
on  his  coat.  Hugh  wis  at  first  astonished  at  this  col- 
lapse. He  found  some  brandy  and  gave  him  a  strong 
dose. 

"  You  can't  think  of  running  away,"  he  said,  "  you 
must  face  these  people." 

"•  Face  them,"  DeLaunay  groaned,  "face  judge  and 
jury  and  jail." 

His  teeth  chattered  and  he  continued  to  struggle 
with  his  coat-  His  eyes  looked  wild.  Hugh  gave 
him  another  dose  of  brandy,  and  then  made  up  his 
mind  to  a  course  of  action  He  took  off  the  over- 
coat and  pushed  DeLaunay  into  a  chair.  He  under- 
stood now  that  the  man  was  a  coward,  and  could  do 
nothing  without  the  coward's  confidence — certainty. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Hugh,  "  are  the  books  you  doc- 
tored when  you  stole  that  money  destroyed." 

"They  are." 

"Then  how  can  anyone  prove  you  stole  the  money  ?" 

"  They  can't  prove  it  by  document,''  said  DeLaunay. 

"  Didn't  you  catch  young  LaRoche  robbing  the 
safe  on  a  certain  night  fifteen  years  ago." 

"  I  did." 

"  Did  you  believe  he  was  robbing  it  ?" 

"  No.  I  knew  he  was  not.  I  was  watching  for 
him  to  do  something  of  the  kind." 

"A  thorough,  rascal,"  thought  Hugh.  He  said 
aloud  in  a  cheery  tone,  "You  are  all  right  then. 


66 

These  people  can't  harm  you.  They  can  threaten  to 
show  the  young  man's  letter  to  everyone,  but  that 
amounts  to  nothing  " 

"  That's  true,"  said  DeLaunay.  The  brandy  was 
giving  him  confidence 

"  You  go  dovva  and  see  these  men.  Hear  their 
story  and  their  demands  Defy  them  to  prove  any- 
thing. But  offer  to  restore  the  son  his  good  name  and 
to  set  him  up  in  business  if  they  keep  still  and  let  you 
have  the  letter  from  Texas.  You  would  not  like  your 
family  to  know  of  this." 

He  drew  a  long  breath  and  paused  before  answering. 

"  No  I  would  not.  Not  for  the  world.  Of  course 
[  will  see  the  men,  and  I  will  follow  your  advice.  I 
will  get  the  letter.  I  will  do  very  handsomely  by 
Amedee.  This  affair  has  been  a  shock  to  me.  I  am 
quite  myself  again.  I  shall  go  down  at  once." 

His  recovery  was  as  rapid  as  his  collapse. 

"  The  books  are  destrayed.  There  is  no  way  of 
proving  anything.  In  tact  I  need  not  give  them  a  bit 
of  encouragement  if  I  choose.  But  I  can  be  generous, 
and  I  will  be." 

He  went  down  without  thanking  Hugh  for  his  aid, 
and  was  the  same  elegant  gentleman  as  ever  who 
greeted  the  old  men  politely  and  thanked  his  daugh- 
ter for  taking  his  place.  As  she  was  going  he  said, 

"  You  need  not  go,  if  these  gentlemen  do  not  ob- 
ject." 

"  Perhaps  if  you  knew  the  contints  of  this  letter 
which  I  am  goin'  to  read,"  said  Mr.  Grady,  "  you 
wouldn't  care  to  have  annybody  but  uz  around." 

In  some  amazement  Regina  looked  at  her  father, 
who  smiling  signed  to  her  to  be  seated. 


67 

"  Very  well  then,"  said  Mr.  Grady,  "  yer  throuble 
be  upon  yer  own  head." 

He  unfolded  his  letter  and  read  it  from  the  first 
word  to  the  last  in  his  hoarse  cracked  voice,  stopping 
occasionally  to  throw  a  look  of  triumph  at  Mr.  De- 
Launay.  The  latter  listened  calmly,  and  with  an  air 
of  interest.  His  mind  went  back  fifteen  years  to  the 
night  when  the  scheme  for  making  poor  Amede"e  his 
scapegoat  flashed  upon  his  nrnd  and  was  carried  out 
successfully  within  the  hour.  It  had  been  a  lucky 
scheme  for  him,  but  hard  upon  the  poor  devil  who 
fled  to  Texas.  Only  the  fittest  survives,  thought  De- 
Launay,  and  he  grew  calmer  as  he  considered  the 
utter  impossibility  of  proving  the  charges.  He  was 
even  angry  that  so  poor  an  impertinence  as  this  should 
come  up  after  fifteen  years.  Mr.  Grady  finished  with 
a  greater  sense  of  importance  than  if  he  had  been 
secretary  to  the  general  judgment  and  had  just  read 
to  the  assembled  world  its  many  iniquities. 

"  I  suppose  the  young  man  wants  money,"  DeLau« 
nay  said  with  a  drawl,  "but  of  course  you  understand 
that  money  demanded  in  this  way  is  blackmail,  I — " 

"Scop  there,"  shouted  Mr.  Grady  in  a  passion. 
"We  didn't  come  here  for  money,  but  for  justice. 
We  wouldn't  touch  yer  money,  such  money  as  yours. 
But  you  hear  what  the  b'y  says.  You  know  it's  the 
truth,  and  we  want  you  to  understand  if  you  don't 
bring  back  that  b'y  to  Saranac,  return  him  his  good 
name,  and  do  something  to  make  up  for  his  banish- 
ment to  Texas,  then  you  go  to  jail  as  sure's  my  name 
is  Tim  Grady." 

"  Mr.  Grady,"  said  DeLaunay,  "  do  I  understand 
that  you  speak  for  the  father  of  this  young —ah — thief." 


68 

"  Papa,"  said  Regina  gently,  for  over  the  captain's 
lace  a  pained  flush  had  spread. 

"  He  speaks  for  me,"  said  LaRoche  in  a  broken 
voice. 

"  The  courts  will  decide  which  is  the  thief,"  shouted 
Mr.  Grady  tapping  the  letter.  "  I  know  him  well 
enough  now ." 

u  Let  me  advise  you  to  burn  that  foolish  letter," 
DeLaunay  said  to  LaRoche  "  It  can't  do  any  good 
to  circulate  such  stories.  Even  if  it  were  true  that  I 
took  the  money,  you  can't  prove  it,  for  the  books  are 
all  destroyed.  If  you  show  it  to  anyone  let  me  tell 
you  what  I  will  do.  I  shall  arrest  you  both  for 
slander,  and  get  damages  enough  to  make  you  poor 
for  the  rest  of  your  lives.  If  I  spared  your  boy  at 
first  I  won't  spare  him  now.  He  goes  to  jail  for 
burglary  the  first  time  I  lay  hands  on  him." 

'•  Thai's  enough,"  said  Mr.  Gradv,  "  we  ran  go  our 
way  an'  you  can  go  you^s.  Come  on,  LaRoche,  to- 
morrow this  letther  shall  be  read  in  every  house  in 
Saranac.  The  people  know  enough  o'  you,  DeLau- 
nay, to  know  thieving  isn't  beyond  you." 

The  gentleman  trembled  from  head  to  foot  at  these 
words,  and  changed  his  position  to  prevent  Regina 
from  noticing  it. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  your  boy,"  he  said  to  the 
captain,  "  and  had  decided  for  his  mother's  sake  to  let 
him  come  home  to  Saranac  and  to  do  something  for 
him.  You  can  tell  your  wife  that.  But  of  course  if 
this  thing  goes  on  I  couldn't  think  of  permitting  him 
to  return." 

"  He'll  return  this  month,"  said  Mr.  Grady,  "an' 
no  thanks  to  you.  Come  on,  LaRoche." 


69 

They  went  out  into  the  hall  and  met  Hugh  Sullivan 
bright  and  smiling  as  if  the  world  were  just  made  new 
that  night.  He  expressed  great  surprise  at  seeing 
them  and  conducted  them  to  the  door.  The  sound 
of  voices  from  the  great  parlors  reached  Mr.  Grady's 
ears  and  gave  him  an  idea. 

"  We  may  as  well  begin  here,"  he  muttered  and  was 
starting  back  when  Hugh's  hand  closed  on  his  arm 
and  placed  him  in  the  open  air  beside  the  captain. 

"Another  time  will  do  as  well,  Mr.  Grady,"  said 
Hugh. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   PILOT'S   BARGAIN. 

It  was  a  sorrowful  night  for  Regina.  The  light  of 
the  parlors  seemed  to  have  become  a  glare,  and  hurt 
her.  The  sincere  compliments  upon  her  acting  gave 
her  no  pleasure,  but  she  smiled  and  thanked  her  gu  -  sts 
mechanically  while  her  mind  was  busy  in  studying  her 
altered  relationship  to  her  happy  past.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  that  anything  so  serious  had  happened. 

Her  father,  of  whose  elegance  and  refinement  she 
had  always  been  proud,  had  been  a  thief,  and  had 
forced  an  innocent  man  to  suffer  for  his  crime !  It 
seemed  to  be  with  him  a  mere  matter  of  business,  but 
if  he  had  been  caught  and  punished  at  that  time  she 
would  now  have  been  poor  and  a  jail-bird's  daughter. 
A  new  quantity,  crime,  had  entered  into  her  life,  and 
a  much-esteemed  one,  perfect  respectability,  had  gone 
out  of  it.  It  was  like  death.  The  father  of  her 
thoughts  had  gone  out  of  them  never  to  return.  In 
his  place  was  a  being  that  hurt  her  to  look  upon  and 


7o 

to  speak  to,  a  being  which  had  sinned  against  her  and 
against  the  innocent.  What  a  pitiful  letter  the  poor 
exile  had  written !  How  patiendy  for  fifteen  years  he 
had  borne  another's  injustice  !  And,  with  what  brazing 
impudence  her  father  had  spoken  of  him  as  a  ihiei! 

The  guests  noticed  no  change  m  her  manner,  which 
at  its  best  was  rot  over-cordial,  but  Hugh  perceived 
the  suffering  she  ensured.  Honesty  was  with  nim 
such  a  virtue  thnt  he  could  easily  enter  into  her  feel- 
ings. He  had  washed  to  save  her  from  any  knowledge 
of  her  father's  character,  and  he  was  angry  with  De- 
Launay  tor  exposing  himself  to  the  one  creature  who 
surely  loved  and  respected  him ;  for  Hugh  surmised 
that  Mrs.  DeLaunay  had  no  regard  for  her  hus- 
band. He  tried  to  comfort  her,  not  s  eing  that 
words  were  small  comfort  at  that  moment  She 
avoided  him,  because  he  knew  of  her  father's 
shame ;  he  who  was  only  a  lake  sailor  belonging 
to  some  common  Irish  family  in  the  tovn.  Very 
likely  he  would  take  advantage  of  his  knowledge  to 
become  disgustingly  familiar,  ard  perhaps  to  thrust 
nimself  upon  her.  Indeed  he  was  doing  that  now, 
following  her  with  his  eyes,  and  trying  to  meet  her  at 
vantage  points  in  the  rooms.  All  at  once  she 
began  to  hate  him,  eluded  him,  received  his  advances 
with  such  coldness  that  he  could  not  fail  to  under 
stand  her  motive.  It  burst  upon  him  suddenly,  and 
set  him  laughing  First  it  was  LaRoche,  then  Grady, 
now  Miss  DeLaunay  who  hated  hi-n  for  his  interfer- 
ence. "  It's  what  meddlers  deserve  anyway,''  he  said, 
and  thereafter  gave  the  poor  girl  no  trouble.  He 
also  took  the  resolution  to  keep  out  of  the  affair  for 
the  rest  of  his  days. 


Regina's  thoughts  still  worried  her,  and  when  she 
saw  that  he  followed  her  no  longer  a  sudden  fright 
stirred  her.  With  the  people  who  knew  of  her  father's 
villainy  she  ought  to  be  friendly  lest  they  blab  his 
guilt  to  the  world.  She  looked  round  at  the  crowded 
parlors.  How  great  a  change  in  these  people  towards 
her  would  not  a  whispered  story  make.  A  panic 
seized  her.  Sullivan  might  be  making  the  past  known 
even  now,  for  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
withhold  it.  She  sought  him  out  and  spoke  to  him 
almost  confidentially. 

"I  had  forgotten  to  thank  you.  Papa  told  me  of 
the  service  you  did  him  this  evening."  She  rould 
not  for  her  life  have  named  the  service.  "  It  was  so 
kind  of  you." 

"  The  kindness  was  intended  pretty  much  for  you," 
he  said.  "  Then  he  spoiled  it  by  letting  you  hear  the 
whole  thing.  There  was  no  necessity  for  that.  You 
need  not  fret  over  it.  It  will  all  be  arranged  quietly 
I  think." 

"  I  must  beg  ©f  you  not  to  mention  it  to  anyone — " 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  answered  in  surprise ;  "  why,  I 
have  been  trying  this  week  past  to  prevent  a  whisper 
of  it  reaching  any  others  than  those  interested." 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  word,"  she  said  earnestly, 
'•  never  to  mention  it  to  any  living  being  ?" 

'•  I  give  you  my  most  solemn  word,"  he  answered 
with  deep  seriousness,  and  somehow  she  felt  that  no 
earthly  power  would  ever  shake  the  strength  of  that 
promise,  even  if  the  Captain  was  nothing  more  than 
a  lake  sailor. 

When  the  guests  were  gone,  and  father  and  daugh 
ter  had  the  great  rooms  to  themselves,  DeLaunay  saw 


72 

that  she  was  eager  to  talk  with  him,  and  a  fear  beset 
him  to  be  with  her  alone.  What  would  she  say  when 
her  thoughts  had  time  to  arrange  themselves  ?  He 
was  uneasy  under  her  scrutiny.  She  was  trying  inno- 
cently to  understand  in  the  sad  light  of  his  crime  the 
new  father  that  had  taken  the  place  of  the  old. 

"  How  did  you  happen  to — "  she  began. 

"  Well  you  see,"  he  interrupted,  "  it  was  very  ordi- 
nary. The  same  thing  happens  every  day  you  know, 
only  not  such  a  fuss  is  made  about  it  I  was  short 
in  my  accounts  some  three  thousand  dollars,  and  a 
little  speculation  I  was  in  failed  to  wind  up  at  the 
time  I  expected.  Three  weeks  afterwards,  my  dear, 
I  was  worth  double  that  amount,  worth  six  thousand. 
But  I  was  desperate.  Winthrop  wanted  to  get  me  out 
of  the  business.  If  he  found  out  the  state  of  the  books 
it  was  all  up  with  me.  Then  this  LaRoche  happened 
to  rot)  the  safe  in  the  nick  of  time.  I  was  very  fair 
with  him,  Regina,  as  you  can  see,  my  dear.  I  could 
have  sent  him  to  Dannemora  prison  for  years,  but  I 
let  him  go.  Afterwards  I  made  the  three  thousand 
good.  The  only  real  injury  done  was  in  making  hi  en 
out  a  defaulter  He  was  only  a  burglar,  a  common 
thief." 

"He  was  not  even  that  as  you  know,  father,"  she 
said  gently,  and  te  answered  nervously: 

"  Well  no,  of  course  not;  strictly  speaking  I  don't 
suppose  he  had  any  intention  of  stealing,  but  if  you 
could  persuade  a  jury  of  that  fact,  Regina?" 

She  raised  her  hand  in  deprecation. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  humbug  between  us,  father." 

'  No,"  he  said  trembling,  "  I  know  it,  I  am  in  the 
wrong.  But  I  am  ready  to  do  what  is  right  by  him. 


73 

He  can  come  back,  and  I  can  put  htm  in  the  way  of 
becoming  a  rich  man.'' 

He  did  not  care  to  say  that  Amedee's  reputation 
would  be  restored  to  him,  nor  did  she  wish  him  to  say 
it,  for  such  a  promise  meant  exposure ;  she  averted 
her  eyes  lest  he  should  take  her  look  as  a  command. 
A  faint  flush  stole  to  her  face  and  receded.  Already  she 
was  willing  to  continue  the  wrong  done  by  her  father. 

"  I  wish  so  many  did  not  know  it,"  she  said.  "  That 
terrible  Grady  is  one  who  will  never  cease  to  per- 
secute us." 

"  Oh,  I  can  settle  Grady,"  he  answered  with  a 
short  laugh,  "the  other  man  can  be  bought 
off  somehow.  It  is  this  young  Sullivan,  I  don't 
know  anything  about  him;  how  did  he 
come  to  know?  But  he  was  very  kind 
you  know;  came  to  tell  me  beforehand;  but 
for  that,  Regina,  I  would  have  fainted  before  those 
men,  and  have  surrendered  at  once.  I  don't  kno  v 
what  his  object  was.  He  braced  me  for  the  interview. 
— Yes,  even  showed  me  how  I  had  the  advantage  of 
the  position  for  the  time,  so  that  I  was  quite  cool,  you 
remember.  Of  course  he  had  an  object,  and  we  must  be 
careful  of  him.  If  this  gets  out  and  reaches  Winthrop's 
ears  and  your  mother " — he  paused  and  trembled  — 
"then  we  may  as  well  give  up  everything.'' 

"  It  must  not  get  out,  father.  I  can  manage  this 
Sullivan  if  you  can  deal  with  the  others.  I  don't  see 
why  you  could  not " 

She  was  going  to  say  "confide  in  mamma,"  but 
checked  herself  in  time,  and  said,  "This  Captain 
Su'livan  has  promised  to  keep  the  matter  a  profound 
secret,  and  I  think  he  is  a  man  of  his  word." 


74 

"  So  are  we  all,  my  dear,  men  of  our  word,  as  long 
as  our  interests  do  not  suffer  by  it. ' 

They  talked  for  some  time  longer,  and  then  retired 
to  their  own  rooms.  Regina  was  tempted  to  fall  into 
discouragement.  She  had  become  all  at  once  a  con 
spirator  with  her  father  against  justice.  There  was  no 
doubt  in  her  mind  that  the  reparation  due  Amedee 
LaRoche  was  the  restoration  of  his  good  name.  For 
his  long  exile  money  and  encouragement  might 
make  some,  if  not  complete,  return.  She  was  not 
prepared  for  an  act  which  would  bring  disgrace 
up^n  herself;  in  fact  her  intention  to  avoid  publicity 
was  firmer  than  her  fa'.her's.  Therein  she  knew  her 
self  gui'ty  as  he.  She  would  not  dwell  upon  the 
thought,  turning  her  mind  to  her  mother  and  Hugh 
Sullivan.  It  was  probable  Sullivan  had  known  of  the 
crime  for  some  time,  even  while  attending  the  re- 
hearsals. She  had  never  spoken  to  him  twice  before 
the  play  of  Ingomar  was  thought  of.  What  was  his 
motive  in  befriending  her  father?  He  had  said 
frankly  that  his  interference  was  intended  to  benefit 
herself  purely.  She  thought  him  stupid  enough  to 
aspire  to  her  hand,  for  Saranac  youth  were  noted  for 
the  solidity  of  their  conceit,  anH  the  vulgar  bluntness 
with  which  they  dashed  into  matrimony.  It  gave  her 
a  vague  satisfaction  to  know  that  if  such  were  his 
motives  sooner  or  later  she  could  punish  him. 

The  relations  between  her  father  and  mother  had 
always  been  a  mystery  to  Regina.  DeLaunay  was 
afraid  of  his  wife,  and  submitted  politely  to  the  covert 
and  biting  sneers  she  inflicted  upon  him  daily.  Her 
manner  often  made  the  girl  think  that  she 
simply  lacked  a  good  reason  to  fall  upon  him 


75 

and  destroy  him.  As  far  as  temper  was  con- 
cerned Mrs.  DeLaunay  was  a  model.  She  never 
showed  any,  but  she  had  the  faculty  of  saying  more 
with  glance  and  gesture  than  most  people  with  their 
tongues.  Regina  admired  her  fathet  more,  because 
his  thorough  refinement  seemed  flawless,  while  about 
her  mother  hung  a  suspicion  of  coarseness  scarcely 
hidden  by  her  grand  manner.  What  history  had  tHe 
two  which  threw  so  dark  and  lasting  a  shadow  over 
their  lives?  It  was  useless  to  speculate  on  it.  What 
interested  her  more  was  that  from  her  mother  and 
frorii  Sullivan  danger  was  to  be  apprehended.  Re- 
calling a  happy  home  she  had  once  seen,  it  saddened 
her  to  see  how  little  happiness  her  own  home  offered 
to  its  members.  With  this  last  thought  prompting  the 
willing  tears,  she  slept. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning  before  the  De 
Launays  had  made  up  their  minds  to  leave  comfort- 
able beds  Captain  La  Roche  with  his  letter  was  in  the 
parlor  to  make  terms.  A  few  hours  of  thought  had 
convinced  him  that  Tim  Grady's  movements  were 
erratic  and  unprofitable.  DeLaunay  had  the  safe 
side,  the  law  was  with  him  ;  and  the  pilot,  like  every 
French-Canadian  of  his  class,  had  a  strong  respect  for 
the  law.  His  wife  agreed  eagerly  that  if  the  great 
man  let  Amedee  come  home  and  started  him  in  busi- 
ness it  would  be  best  for  them  all.  In  vain  Tim 
Grady  protested.  1  he  pecuniary  advantages  were 
not  on  his  side.  He  had  only  a  shadowy  honor  to 
plead  for,  and  little  the  poor  mother  cared  for  that  if 
she  but  had  her  son.  Moreover  LaRoche  insisted 
on  secrecy  being  kept  by  Tim,  which  the  latter  sour- 
ly promised  on  conditions. 


76 

"  If,"  said  Mr.  Grady,  impressively,  "  this  rascal 
DeLaunay — for  that's  all  he  is — doesn't  do  what's 
square  by  yez,  thin  I'll  spake  whin  I  plaze.  An'  if  iver 
I  come  across  the  books  that  he  says  were  burned — " 

"  Oh,  they  was  burned  long  ago,"  said  the  pilot 
laughing. 

"Providence,"  replied  Mr.  Grady,  with  the  air  of  first 
assistant  to  the  Creator,  "  has  ways  of  Its  own  How 
do  you  or  anyone  else  know  where  thim  books  are  at 
the  present  moment  ?  An'  if  I  find  thim — ."  He 
could  only  shake  his  head  in  his  failure  to  get  fitting 
wor^s  for  the  tremendous  things  he  would  do. 

"  If  you  find  'em  you'll  give  'em  to  Amedee  when 
he  comes  back,''  said  La  Roche. 

"  Ay,  whin  he  does,"  said  Tim,  bitterly. 

Somewhat  repentant  the  pilot  called  on  Hugh, 
tried  to  explain  matters,  and  to  get  his  opinion  on 
what  he  ought  to  do,  but  Hugh  was  good-naturedly 
inexorable,  and  refused  to  have  anything  to  say  in 
the  matter.  A  family  affair,  he  thought,  ought  to  be 
conducted  by  the  family  and  its  lawyers,  it  was  a 
principle  he  had  acted  on  up  to  the  present,  and  he 
was  sorry  thst  for  a  few  weeks  he  had  forgotten  it.  So 
LaRoche,  unadvised  and  uncertain,  went  alone  to  De- 
Launay ard  found  himself  from  the  first  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. The  grand  house  awed  him,  and  he  wondered 
that  they  could  have  had  the  boldness  to  enter  it  on 
such  a  mission  the  night  previous.  It  was  net  possible 
that  the  man  who  owned  so  much  money  cou'd  once 
have  stooped  to  steal  three  thousand  dollars.  He  greeted 
DeLaunay  with  profound  respect,  and  reminded  him 
of  his  remaik  during  their  last  exciting  conversation. 

"  There's  no  need  o'  me  sayin'  that  if  I  knew  you 


77 

was  intendin'  to  treat  Ame^e  that  way  I  wouldn't  hev 
thought  o'  disturbin'  ye  on  no  account.  If  you  hevn't 
changed  yer  mind  I'd  be  willin'  to  throw  away  the 
letter,  an'  say  no  more  about  it." 

''  I  am  willing  that  Amedee  should  come  back,  La- 
Roche.  But  about  setting  him  up  in  business  I  don't 
think  I  could  do  that  very  well.  He  must  have  for- 
gotten all  about  business  now,  and  then  it  would  take 
considerable  money.  I  might  lend  him  something,  or 
say  a  good  word  for  him.'' 

The  pilot  held  his  son's  letter  in  his  hand  and  his 
face  grew  downcast. 

"  I  told  the  oF  woman  you  was  intendin " 

"  Ah,  your  wife !  Yes,  for  her  sake  I  might  do 
something.  She  must  have  suffered  for  the  last  fifteen 
years  with  her  son  absent.  A  bright  boy  he  was. 
Too  much  company  spoiled  him.  He  might  have 
been  a  rich  man  at  this  moment.1' 

LaRoche  placed  the  letter  in  his  hands  appealing 
silently  for  his  favor.  The  great  man  turned  it  over 
indifferently  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  He  wanted 
some  assurances  of  good  behavior. 

"  You  told  too  many  about  this  thing,  LaRoche. 
After  what  I  did  for  your  son  I  had  no  right  to  expect 
it.  Now  who  can  say  what  talking  this  Grady  and 
this  Sullivan  may  do  ?" 

"  Grady  won't  say  nothin',  for  I'll  deny  everthin'  he 
says,  and  Hugh  Sullivan  says  it's  agin  his  principles 
to  meddle  with  family  doin's.  No  one  else  knows 
anytnin'  about  it.  You've  got  the  letter  an'  there's 
the  end  on't." 

"Very  true.  Well,  I  don't  mind  promising  to  set 
Amede'e  up  in  business,  and  to  help  him  along,  too* 


7* 

when  he  gets  home.  Shall  I  write  to  him,  or  do  you 
think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  do  it  ?;' 

"  If  you  wouldn't  mind,"  said  LaRoche,  "  it  would 
be  a  surprise  to  the  boy  to  git  a  letter  from  you." 

"  No  doubt.  Well,  I'll  write  the  letter,  and  you 
can  post  it  with  one  of  your  own.  Good  morning." 

The  pilot  went  away  delighted,  and  with  a  gesture 
of  contempt,  DeLaunay  threw  the  letter  into  the 
stove.  Regina  came  in  as  it  turned  to  ashes,  and 
was  told  of  the  happy  incident. 

"  It  was  a  moderately  tight  corner,  my  dear,"  said 
her  father  placidly,  "  but  I  have  been  in  worse  ones. 
I  mean  that  this  particular  business  shall  never  trouble 
me  again." 

Regina  wondered  if  to  accomplish  this,  further  dis- 
hcuesty  and  cruelty  would  be  necessary. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

QUIET   TIMES. 

The  immediate  consequence  of  LaRoche's  sur- 
render to  DeLaunay  was  a  breaking-up  of  all  the  little 
anxieties,  excitements,  relationships  which  the  letter 
had  helped  to  form.  Everyone  dropped  at  once  into 
his  usual  place,  and  every  mouth  was  shut  so  tight, 
every  tell-tale  glance  so  carefully  suppressed  that  to 
the  interested  parties  the  whole  affair  might  well  have 
been  a  dream.  Mr.  Tim  Grady,  however,  was  fidgetty 
and  quarrelsome.  LaRoche  was  compelled  to  put  a 
firm  hand  and  a  strong  word  upon  him.  Hugh  Sullivan 
avoided  him  always.  DeLaunay  treated  him  with 
contempt.  In  his  extremity  he  turned  to  David 


79 

Winthrop  and  put  with  great  caution  a  hypothetical 
question.  Was  it  the  custom  of  business  firms  to  de- 
stroy their  old  books  and  papers  ?  After  a  certain 
number  of  years  it  was,  said  Winthrop,  and  as  it  took 
little  to  make  the  old  man  talk  about  his  glorious  past 
he  went  on  to  say : 

"  I  never  destroyed  a  book,  never,  sir.  I  have  'em 
all  stowed  away  in  a  safe.  DeLaunay  tried  to  burn 
some  of  'em,  and  actually  gave  the  order  to  some  man 
to  build  a  fire  under  'em,  but  I  saw  to  it  that  the 
wrong  books  went  into  the  fire,  and  I  kept  the  right 
ones.  He  believes  they  were  destroyed  I  thought 
I  might  have  caught  him  napping.  I  examined  the 
books  very  carefully.  They  were  all  right  as  far  as 
he  was  concerned.  Young  LaRoche  had  doctored 
'em  to  the  tune  of  three  thousand,  that  was  all  was 
wrong  with  'em. 

Mr.  Grady  smiled  at  this  emphatic  talk,  and  felt 
that  after  all  he  had  the  advantage  of  Hugh  Sullivan 
and  DeLaunay,  whom  he  associated  since  the  night 
Hugh  so  suddenly  transferred  him  to  the  street  side 
of  the  hall  door  at  the  grand  house.  At  once  his 
firlgetting  ceased.  He  no  longer  looked  daggers  and 
breathed  war  in  the  presence  of  these  gentlemen,  and 
ceased  to  coin  hints  and  quote  proverbs  to  Madame 
LaRoche.  Peace  reigned  in  Saranac.  It  was  also 
the  season  when  mud  had  possession  of  the  town. 
April  had  come  with  strong  south  winds  and  generous 
rain.  The  snow  was  firm,  deep,  brilliant  the  first 
week  of  the  month,  and  did  not  mind  the  new  heat  of 
the  sun.  In  three  days  under  the  rain  and  the  wind 
it  became  a  sickly  thing,  shrunken  and  ugly;  in  three 
more  it  was  utterly  gone.  The  frozen  earth  looked 


86 

hideous.  The  lake  rose  within  its  borders,  and  cracked 
'he  honey-combed  ice,  which  the  winds  seized, 
and  churned  and  twisted  and  knocked  about 
until  only  a  fringe  of  ice  fragments  lay  along  the  shore 
of  the  bay.  When  the  noise  of  the  day  had  ceased  and 
the  slight  swell  of  the  lake  rose  and  fell  on  the  shore, 
these  broken  pieces  striking  one  another  tinkled  like 
the  sweetest  bells.  The  music  was  more  ravishing 
and  keen  than  any  which  art  could  produce,  and 
Saranac  folk,  young  and  old,  turned  out  to  hear  it ; 
the  old  recounting  all  the  pleasant  things  that  had 
happened  since  first  they  heard  its  exquisite  tone,  the 
young  finding  language  lor  one  another  that  seemed 
to  harmonize  with  the  tinkling  sound  as  softly  as  did 
the  minor  key  of  the  elders.  It  was  the  busy  time  for 
Saranac.  Farmers  were  preparing  for  seed  time  and 
boatmen  for  the  opening  of  navigation.  Everyone 
was  hard  at  work  and  glad  that  the  long  winter  was 
over.  The  talk  in  the  stores  and  saloons  had  changed 
from  anecdote  and  reminiscence  to  present  plans. 
No  longer  could  anyone  be  found  at  home  or  loung- 
ing about  the  town.  Workpeople  were  out  daily  in 
the  mud. 

In  three  weeks  Hugh  had  not  seen  Regina,  and 
had  taken  particular  pains  to  avoid  her  father.  He 
was  glad  to  know  that  the  whole  matter  had  come 
lo  an  end,  and  gave  himself  much  credit  for  his  share 
in  bringing  it  about.  He  was  not  shy  in  claiming 
merit  for  his  own  good  actions  and  qualities, 
having  the  commercial  instinct  for  values : 
but  at  the  same  time  he  was  too  sensible  to  look  for 
displays  of  gratitude  or  admiration  from  others.  It 
iid  not  seem  strange  to  him  therefore  that  the  De 


8i 

Launays  had  so  suddenly  cut  off  all  intercourse  with 
him.  He  had  never  associated  with  them  until  the 
rehearsal  began,  and  the  play  being  over  he  did  not 
see  any  reason  for  closer  relationship  than  before. 
Home  matters,  too,  were  interesting  just  now.  Remi 
and  Elise  were  prepanrg  their  catechism  earnestly, 
the  boy  to  make  his  first  communion,  the  girl  to  make 
her  first  confession  and  to  be  enrolled  in  the  scapular. 
Their  excitement  had  naturally  communicated  itself 
to  the  whole  house.  Mrs.  Sullivan's  strictures  on  the 
French  and  their  notions  were  altogether  suppressed, 
that  strife  might  not  disturb  the  pious  dispositions  of 
the  little  ones.  She  justified  her  silence  by  such  re- 
marks as  "  Whin  it  comes  to  confession  an'  com- 
munion an'  Mass  an'  Death  an  sich,  Frinchmin  an 
Irish  are  all  wan  I  don't  suppose  wan  could  tell  a 
Frinchman's  bones  from  mine  a  hundred  years  from 
now."  She  grew  so  amiable  on  this  point  that  the 
children  tried  her  resolution  sorely.  The  mother, 
sweet  and  gentle  with  them  always  was  most  con- 
cerned with  the  clothes  they  were  to  wear.  Hugh  was 
the  instructor,  taking  charge  of  their  progress  in  the 
catechism.  So  from  morning  till  bedtime  it  was  one 
topic  or  another  connected  with  the  great  event  of 
Easter,  and  Hugh  spent  most  of  his  time  at  home 
with  the  children.  His  heart  was  wrapped  up  in  them 
as  if  they  were  his  own.  Manlike,  he  seemed  1o 
love  the  little  girl  best,  her  ways  were  a  wonder  to 
him  ;  but  the  boy  was  really  nearer  to  him  in  that  he 
looked  upon  him  as  a  future  comrade.  Regina  De 
Launay  would  have  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  any 
man  could  so  far  forget  himself  in  others ;  John  Win- 
tnrop  would  not  have  believed  it  at  all.  It  was  re- 


82 

served  for  their  enlightenment  at  a  time  when  it  most 
afflicted  them. 

The  cool  nights  of  April  were  home  nights,  too 
chilly  for  loitering  without,  nights  in  which  to  appre- 
ciate warm  rooms,  well  lighted  and  shining  supper- 
tables,  where  talk  flowed  freely  on  the  events  of  the 
day.  Remi  and  Elise  nrere  the  autocrats  of  Mrs. 
Sullivan's  supper-table. 

"  Only  two  weeks  more,  Elise,"  said  Remi  with  a 
teasing  glance. 

"  I  don  t  care  if  it  was  only  one,  do  I,  Uncle  Hugh  ?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  he,  "  what  is  there  to  fret 
about  ?  who  would  want  to  find  a  nicer  man  than 
Father  McManus." 

"  There  now,"  said  Elise,  "  do  you  hear  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  Father  McManus  is  nice  enough,"  said  Remi, 
"  he  won't  eat  you.  But  then  it  s  going  in  alone  to 
the  little  box  all  in  the  dark,  and  waiting  for  the 
slide  to  open.  My,  won't  you  shake!  And  then 
when  you  have  a  lot  of  sins  to  tell  like  you  have — " 

"  I  haven't  as  many  as  you,"  she  said  triumphantly. 

"  Oh,  Elise,"  cried  the  boy,  "  didn't  we  count  'em 
the  other  day,  and  didn't  you  have  twenty-three  to 
my  nineteen  ?  Didn't  we  now  ?" 

"  But  its  my  first  confession,"  said  Elise.  "  I've 
been  saving  up  my  sins  for  three  years,  and  you've 
been  to  confession  ever  so  many  times.  Hasn't  he 
Uncle  Hugh  ?" 

"  Certainly,  dear." 

"  But  [  didn't  have  any  for  my  first  confession," 
shouted  Remi.  "When  I  went  in  to  the  priest  I 
couldn't  say  a  word.  *  What  have  you  done,'  says  he. 
'  Nothing,'  says  I." 


83 

"  Better  to  use  '  said  he  '  and  '  said  I,'  "  mamma 
interposed. 

"  '  Well,  you're  a  very  good  boy,'  said  he.  '  Try 
and  come  to  confession  that  way  all  the  time.' " 

"  But  you  didn't,"'  taunted  Elise. 

"  I  made  a  good  start,  didn't  I,  Uncle  Hugh  ?" 

"No,  you  didn't."  "Yes,  I  did/'  "No,  you 
didn't." 

"That  sounds  like  the  katy  dids,"  said  grandma 

"  They  keep  it  up  all  night,  an'  somehow  or  another 
they  don't  agree  at  five  o'clock  in  the  mornin'  any 
more  than  at  ten  o'clock  at  night." 

"  But  you'll  be  afraid  all  the  same,"  said  Remi  con- 
tinuing the  teasing  process.  "  You  don't  know  how 
to  make  a  confession  yet.'' 

"  I  know  it  perfect  now,"  said  Elise. 

"  Didn't  we  practice  it  to  day,  an'  you  couldn't  tell 
the  first  word.'' 

"But  I  know  it  all  now  every  word,"  persisted 
Elise. 

"  How  did  you  practice  it,"  said  Hugh. 

"He  was  Father  McManus  and  I  went  to  confes- 
sion to  him,"  said  the  child. 

The  three  elders  exchanged  amused  glances. 

"  God  grant  we  may  have  some  kmd  of  a  father  in 
the  family  to  give  us  absolution,"  muttered  the  old 
lady  to  her  plate. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  eager  to  see  this 
practicing  with  his  own  eyes,  "  Elise  knows  every 
word.  When  supper  is  over  you  can  try  it,  and  I'll  be 
the  judge." 

Eveiy  one  was  serious,  and  the  children  had  no  sus- 
picion that  there  was  anything  amusing  in  their  seri- 


84 

ous  play.  When  they  rose  from  the  table  Hugh 
took  his  paper  and  sat  down  to  read,  while  Remi  ar- 
ranged a  stool  at  the  back  of  a  chair  and  sat  down  to 
hear  the  confession  of  Elise.  The  pretty  child  kneel- 
ing at  the  seat  of  the  chair  could  see  as  through  a  screen 
her  confessor's  head. 

''Now  listen,  Uncle  Hugh,"  she  said.  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van had  fled  to  the  kitchen  and  Mrs.  Lajeunesse  was 
engaged  in  removing  the  dishes,  but  all  three  were 
watching  a  scene  which  to  them  was  prophetic  as  well 
as  amusing. 

"Father,  forgive  me  for  I  have  sinned,"  said  Elise. 

"You  didn't  make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  said  Remi. 

"  I  did,  the  first  thing." 

"  I  saw  her,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

Then  Elise  said  the  Confiteor  to  the  proper  pause, 
stating  that  it  was  her  first  confession — 

"  You  were  old  enough  to  have  come  sooner,"  said 
the  confessor  gravely. 

"  So  were  you,"  Elise  responded  promptly. 

"  Is  that  the  way  to  talk  to  the  priest,  Uncle  Hugh," 
said  Remi  looking  over  the  confessional.  "  No  mat- 
ter what  I  say  she  can't  talk  back,  can  she  ?" 

"  Of  course  not.     It  wouldn't  be  polite. ' 

"  I  forgot  you  were  a  priest,"  said  Elise  gently. 

"Go  on  then,"  said  the  confessor,  "you  are  very 
rude." 

Elise  was  compelled  to  suppress  a  giggle. 

•'Father,  I  have  sinned  by  etcetera,  etcetera, 
etcera." 

"  Tell  some  real  sins,  I  don't  want  any  etceteras. 
You  don't  get  absolution  for  them." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  tell  my  sins  here,"  said  Elise. 


85 

"  Then  I'll  tell  them  for  you,  you  rude  girl.  Didn't 
you  tell  three  fibs  last  week — " 

"  Here,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "  drop  that.  Go  on 
with  the  end  of  the  confession,  Elise." 

Elise  finished  the  confiteor,  and  said  the  act  of  con- 
trition in  spite  of  Remi's  noisy  protests  that  he  had 
not  given  a  penance.  Then  she  upset  the  chair  and 
ran  to  Uncle  Hugh  for  approval,  who  kissed  her  and 
said  no  one  could  possibly  surpass  her  method  of 
going  to  confession. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "  we  might  all  go  to 
confession,  now  that  we  have  a  young  priest  in  the 
family.  I'm  afraid  though,  Remi,  your  absolution 
wouldn't  put  many  souls  into  heaven." 

CHAPTER  X. 

TIM   GRADY   IN   TEXAS. 

If  Hugh  thought  no  more  of  the  DeLaunays, 
Regina  had  not  ceased  to  think  of  and  to  wonder  at 
his  disappearance ;  for  it  soon  became  clear  that  of 
his  own  will  he  had  resumed  his  former  attitude  to- 
wards them.  She  spoke  of  it  to  her  father. 

"  My  dear  Regina,"  said  he,  blandly.  "  I  kaven't 
thought  of  the  fellow  twice  since  that  night,  and  I  do 
not  see  why  you  should  bother  about  him.  He  is 
very,  very  common-place,  used  to  black  boots  or  sell 
papers,  or  some  hideous  thing  like  that,  when  he  was 
young.  Gratitude !  Well,  I  feel  grateful  to  him, 
but  this  class  of  people  must  be  let  severely  alone. 
Some  day  he  will  want  a  business  favor,  I  grant  it, 
and  our  account  is  squared." 

The  words  hurt  her,  true  as  they  might  be.    Granted 


86 

that  the  young  man  was  one  to  be  let  severely  alone 
for  his  troublesome  qualities,  they  were  at  least  be- 
holden to  him  for  services  ;  but  the  manner  in  which 
her  father  treated  everything  and  everybody  con- 
nected with  his  shame  made  very  evident  his  pure 
hatred  of  all  concerned  in  his  exposure.  There  was 
no  pity  in  his  soul,  no  sorrow  for  bitter  wrong  done. 
This  fact  came  home  to  her  slowly,  and  did  not,  of 
course,  increase  her  esteem  for  him. 

He  had  concluded  after  a  little  thought  that  no 
danger  was  to  be  feared  from  Sullivan,  whereas  Tim 
Grady  needed  constant  watching.  Hugh  behaved 
precisely  as  if  the  late  troubles  had  never  taken  place, 
but  Grady  had  become  so  annoying  that  if  happ:ness 
were  to  be  DeLaunay's  lot  in  Saranac  the  old  man  had 
to  be  reduced  to  abject  servitude.  To  secure  this  end 
Rpgina's  father  prepared  a  little  plan,  and  then  sent 
for  Tim. 

"  Grady,"  said  he,  "  I  have  a  little  business  matter 
to  settle  with  you. — " 

"  And  so  have  I  with  you,"  responded  Tim  cheer- 
fully. 

"  Indeed,"  with  surprise,  "  may  I  ask  what  yours 
might  be  ?" 

"  You  might,  an'  ye'll  get  yer  answer.  I  don't 
want  to  fight  ye  in  the  dark,  as  you  did  Amed£e 
LaRoche,  but  you  must  know  that  the  books  of  the 
firm  that  ye  thought  were  burnt  aren't  burnt  at  all, 
but  are  in  David  Winthrop's  hands  to  be  examined 
any  time  we  wish.  An'  jist  as  soon  as  ye  fail  to  do 
the  square  thing  bye  the  b'y  in  Texas,  that  minute 
I'm  free  to  tell  Winthrop  the  whole  st^ry  an'  have  him 
examine  the  books.  Ye  can  jist  imagine  how  glad 


87 

he'll  be  to  do  us  that  service.  That's  my  business, 
now  what  is  yours." 

"  You  say  the  books  that  LaRoche  doctored  have 
not  been  destroyed  ?"  repeated  Mr.  DeLaunay,  slowly, 
as  if  every  word  was  worth  a  million. 

"That's  just-  what  I  say,"  Grady  answered  in  tri- 
umph. 

"  Yen  gev  the  ordhers  to  have  'em  desthroyed,  but 
Mr.  Winthrop  put  old  wans  in  their  place  and  kept 
the  books  that  you  docthored." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,  Grady,"  said  Mr.  DeLaunay 
pleasantly.  "  You  cannot  prove  such  a  charge  even 
with  the  books.  Curious  action  on  Winthrop's  part, 
but  he  was  always  a  suspicious,  mean  dog.  I'm 
glad  you  mentioned  it.  But  are  you  quite  certain 
that  the  books  are  still  in  the  hands  of  Winthrop  ?" 

"  I  have  his  own  word  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Grady.  "  He 
had  no  reason  that  I  could  see  for  telling  a  lie,  for  he 
didn't  know  what  I  was  afther.'. 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

"  O'  coorse  not,"  repeated  Mr.  Grady.  "  He  said 
that  he  looked  through  the  b  Doks  to  see  if  you  had 
done  anythin'  to  'em,  but  he  couldn't  find  ye^thracks. 
But  if  I  get  at  them  wanst,  Mr.  DeLaunay,  ye  may 
feel  sure  I'll  folly  ye  up  to  the  last  figger." 

"  I'm  sure  you  will,"  the  gentleman  said  amiably, 
and  then  suavely  stated  that  Amede*e  LaRoche  would 
soon  be  back  from  Texas ;  he  hoped  that  Mr.  Grady, 
as  the  godfather  of  the  young  man,  would  not  put  any 
foolish  notions  in  his  mind  about  a  broken  reputation, 
but  would  rather  do  his  utmost  to  prepare  him  for  a 
useful  business  career  in  Saranac,  where,  with  the 
help  of  his  many  friends  and  financial  backing,  he 


88 

would  quickly  live  down  his  past  reputation.  Un- 
fortunately, continued  DeLaunay  with  a  sigh,  he  had 
just  received  word  from  Texas  that  Amede'e  had 
taken  to  drink,  and  in  consequence  the  scheme  of 
bringing  him  back  to  Saranac  presented  difficulties  ; 
it  would  be  necessary  for  a  trusty  person  to  go  to 
Osborne,  and  discover  the  exile's  actual  condition ; 
he  himself  would  pay  all  expenses,  and  he  thought 
Mr.  Grady  was  the  proper  person  to  send  on  this 
mission.  Tim  was  amazed  when  the  offer  was  made 

"  It1s  the  fairest  thing  ye've  done  yit,"  he  said,  "  I 
am  protecting  myself,"  replied  DeLaunay,  stiffly.  "  I 
have  promised  to  bring  the  man  home,  and  start  him 
in  business,  but  I  am  not  going  to  throw  money  in'o 
the  lake.  If  he  has  turned  out  a  drunkard  I  shall  do 
nothing  for  him,  but  for  his  father  instead." 

Then  he  placed  a  roll  of  bills  in  Mr.  Grady's  hands, 
bade  him  be  secret  and  expeditious,  and  expressed 
the  hope  that  Amed6e  would  be  in  fit  condition  to 
return  home  under  his  godfather's  care. 

"  A  perfectly  safe  compliment,"  he  said  gleefully  to 
Regina  after  the  old  man's  departure,  "  for  if  I  know 
Mr  Grady  he  will  return  thoroughly  disgusted. 

"  Unless  his  godson  should  not  be  so  bad  as  re- 
ported," she  suggested  at  random. 

"  Oh !  That's  a  thing  to  be  thought  of  too,"  he  said 
startled.  "  It  is  the  unexpected  that  has  happened 
in  the  last  few  weeks.  And  I  begin  to  fear,  Regina, 
that  we  have  made  a  mistake  in  our  behavior  to  young 
Sullivan.  If  anything  happens  he  might  be  of  use  to 
us  again  in  taming  these  wild  people  ?" 

"  Possibly,'1  she  replied  coldly.  "  I  have  thought 
of  it  myself,  and  if  you  wish  I  might  call  or — " 


89 

"  I  think  it  would  be  best,  Regina.  He's  a  nasty 
beggar,  but  we  can't  help  it,  for  a  little  while,  you 
know,  until  everything  is  surely  settled. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  his  confidences  were 
distasteful  to  her.  The  complete  exposure  he  had 
made  of  his  character  to  her  astonished  gaze  had 
made  him  almost  repulsive  in  her  sight,  and  she 
ivould  freely  have  dispensed  with  his  confidences.  But 
his  weak  nature  required  something  to  lean  upon. 
She  was  his  confessor  as  it  were,  and  had  to  suffer  as 
confessors  usually  do,  from  revelations  of  moral 
hideousness.  Her  elegant  father  was  not  only  a  liar, 
hypocrite,  and  coward,  but  also  hard  enough  in  infamy 
to  make  little  secret  of  it  before  his  daughter.  She 
bore  it  patiently.  His  latest  news  was  indeed  a  thing 
to  rejoice  over!  Amede"e  Le Roche  drinking  himself 
to  death  in  Texas !  He  had  become  a  confirmed 
drunkard,  and  it  was  a  matter  of  a  very  few  months 
until  he  died  of  delirium  tremens.  He  did  not  see 
her  shudder,  so  eager  was  he  in  explaining  his  plans. 

Tim  Grady  returned  home  one  month  after  his  de- 
parture with  a  grave  face  and  a  sad  story.  He  stayed 
one  day  and  one  night  in  the  town  which  suffered 
from  the  presence  of  Amed6e  LaRoche,  and  to  the 
sorrowful  father  and  Captain  Sullivan  he  told  his  ex- 
periences. 

"  Whin  I  kem  to  Osborne,"  he  said,  "  they  were 
houldin'  a  political  meetin',  an'  I  had  to  mek  a  speech, 
of  course.  Well,  all  the  time  I  was  talkio',  there  was 
in  the  aujence  a  dhrunken  fool  that  kep'  mockin'  me, 
an'  interruptin'  me,  an'  abusin'  me  worse  than  a  mur- 
dherer.  I  niver  in  all  me  life  heard  such  swearin'  an' 
goin'  on.  Whin  we  got  through,  and  we  wor  all 


92 

condemned  for  his  former  trickery.  They  could  have 
made  it  hot  for  him,  only  that  money  was  on  hand, 
and  he  agreed  to  do  the  right  thing  without  compul- 
sion. To  restore  the  young  fellow  to  his  parents,  and 
set  him  up  in  business.  Dannemora  would  hardly  be 
the  place  for  DeLaunay's  style. 

I  hope  your  little  speculation  is  turning  out  well 
I  send  you  a  check  for  your  share  of  our  last  venture. 
The  weather  is  moderating,  and  the  lake  is  opening. 
In  a  week  we  can  begin  to  paint  and  mend  for  spring 
work.  Kind  regards. 

Tour  Friend, 

HUGH  SULLIVAN. 

In  New  York  after  reading  this  letter  Winthrop 
pondered  over  it  carefully.  The  second  paragraph 
might  have  been  omitted,  and  the  letter  have  read  as 
well.  The  first  paragraph  had  evidently  started  a 
train  of  thought  in  Hugh's  mind,  and  unconsciously 
he  had  expressed  it  on  paper.  The  impression  made 
upon  him  by  the  prison  led  him  to  think  of  DeLaunay 
as  a  convict.  So  something  must  have  happened  at 
home  which  was  public  property  by  this  time,  and 
Hugh  had  been  connected  with  it.  It  might  have 
been  the  discovery  of  DeLaunay's  ill-doing  in  former 
days.  He  had  bought  off  the  accusers  or  the  injured 
and  so  escaped.  That  it  was  public  property  Win- 
throp thought  from  the  tone  of  the  second  paragraph. 
He  was  supposed  to  know  something  concerning  De 
Launay  which  made  Hugh's  comments  intelligible. 
It  surprised  him  therefore  on  his  return  to  discover 
no  trace  of  the  event  to  which  the  letter  alluded.  He 
made  the  most  cautious  inquiries,  and  sounded  Hugh 
many  times  on  the  wardenship  of  the  prison.  There 


93 

was  not  the  slightest  rumor  of  crime,  or  exposure,  or 
jail  in  connection  with  DeLaunay's  name. 

He  studied  the  letter  once  more,  and  then  con- 
structed a  theory  about  it.  Something  had  happened 
in  the  DeLaunay  family,  the  exposure  of  a  crime 
which  had  left  DeLaunay  open  to  dargerous  accusa 
tions.  He  had  bought  off  his  accusers,  Hugh  was  in- 
terested on  either  side,  probably  on  DeLaunay's,  and 
in  a  thoughtless  mood  had  let  slip  vaguely  the  secret. 
If  he  were  in  the  family  secrets  now,  he  must  have 
been  very  close  to  its  members  during  the  days  of 
threatened  exposure.  This  thought  made  Winthrop 
downhearted,  until  he  saw  that  Hugh  was  no  longer 
received  at  the  mansion  and  was  treated  with  much 
coldness  by  Regina.  To  test  the  soundness  of  his 
theory  of  the  letter  he  said  abruptly  to  Hugh, 

"  What  is  this  trouble  that  you  told  me  of  about  De 
Launay  running  the  risk  of  getting  jailed,  or  some- 
thing to  that  effect." 

"  I  never  told  you  or  any  other  lawyer  about  any 
trouble  in  which  DeLaunay  ran  a  risk  of  getting  jailed," 
Hugh  answered  promptly.  "  What  are  you  after  ?  " 

"  It  was  you  or  another,"  said  John  meditative1}'. 
"Didn't  you  write  me  a  letter  while  I  was  in  New  York 
last  month  ?  And  wasn't  it  then  that  I  heard  the  news  ?" 

"I  wrote  you  a  letter  I  know.  But  there  was  no 
stuff  of  that  sort  in  It." 

"  Where  did  I  hear  it,  then  ?  Has  there  been  any 
story  to  that  effect  going  round  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  none,"  said  Hcgh  cheerfully,  and 
then  began  to  wonder  how  the  late  episode  had  be- 
come knovn.  Winthrop  was  satisfied  that  his  theory 
of  the  letter  was  correct,  and  that  the  letter  itself  was 


94 

worth  keeping  as  a  specimen  of  psychological  eccen- 
tricity. He  suspected  the  secret  which  it  was  in- 
tended Hugh  should  keep,  having  found  by  dexterous 
enquiry  that  nothing  was  known  about  such  an  affair 
amot  g  the  people  of  Saranac.  It  was  character- 
istic of  John  Winthrop  that  he  at  once  dismissed 
the  matter  from  his  mind.  He  had  partially  learned 
a  secret  through  his  friend's  inadvertence,  and  he 
respected  it  as  sincerely  as  if  he  were  bound  by  oath. 
His  delicacy  of  feeling  was  a  strong  trait  in  him.  It 
was  all  the  more  curious  that  his  old  father  had  no 
delicacy  to  mention,  and  that  the  quality  was  unknown 
in  the  district.  The  fust  tows  had  already  cleared 
from  Saranac,  and  in  the  still  cool  nights  the  songs  of 
Canadian  boatmen  could  often  be  heard  on  the 
water  at  any  hour  until  dawn.  The  opening  of  the 
great  waterway  of  Champlain  meant  life  to  Saranac, 
after  the  dullness  of  winter.  This  year  it  opened  very 
pleasantly  owing  to  the  inventiveness  of  the  captain 
of  the  Adirondack,  which  lay  in  the  glory  of  fresh 
paint  at  her  dock  waiting  only  the  signal  to  steam 
away.  Her  decks  were  gay  with  banners  and  Chinese 
lanterns,  and  her  salons  with  green  festooning  and 
bright  drapery  for  Captain  Sullivan  had  arranged  to 
hold  the  last  church  festival  of  the  year  on  the 
steamer,  and  to  reproduce  Ingomar  in  the  grand  salon 
as  brilliantly  as  at  DeLaunay  mansion.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  scheme  Mrs.  Sullivan  one  afternoon 
had  her  kitchen  stove  in  full  blast  baking  cake,  and 
her  ice  cream  freezers  doing  heavy  work  in  the  barn 
with  Tim  Grady  at  the  crank.  Four  points  of  the 
compass  engaged  her  attention :  the  cake  in  the  oven, 
the  cream  in  the  barn,  the  gay  steamer  in  the  bay, 


95 

and  the  front  bedroom  where  Remi  lay  ill  attended 
by  his  mother.  Mrs.  Sullivan  scolded  at  them  all 

"  I  wouldn't  object,"  she  said  to  Mr  Grady,  "  to  all 
the  festivals  the  church  cud  have,  an'  I'd  make  a 
thousand  cakes  for  Father  McManus  every  week. 
But  what  did  they  go  to  puttin'  on  their  divil's  plays 
for?  An'  why  can't  they  have  the  thing  dacent  in  the 
hall  instid  o'  runnin'  afther  the  ship  ?" 

"  By  gum,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Grady,  warmly,  "  'twas 
a  great  idea  to  take  the  ship  for  the  festival.  The 
people  are  comin'  from  all  over  to  see  it  as  they  never 
kem  afore.  It's  the  novelty  that  draws  'em,  an'  nov- 
elty's the  thing." 

"  Ay,  novelty,"  repeated  the  old  lady  with  scorn. 
"  Novils  an' novelty !  The  town  is  full  ov 'em.  An' 
when  the  novelty's  all  gone,  Misther  Grady,  like 
molasses  out  of  a  barrel,  what'll  they  do  thin,  I'd  like 
to  know." 

"What's  new  to  wan  is  ould  to  another,"  he  replied. 
"  The  young  take  up  what  the  ould  cast  away,  and 
call  it  new.  In  that  way  there'll  always  be  novelty. 
How's  the  b'y?" 

**  I  was  timptin'  him  wid  crarae,  but  he  wudn't  look 
at  it.  I'm  afeard  he's  goin'  to  be  very  sick.  He  was 
wild  to  go  on  the  steamer,  an'  now  he  won't  hear  tell 
of  it.  Divil  o'  much  he'll  miss  to  see  his  uncle  pran- 
cin'  around  like  an  Indian,  an'  makin'  mock  love  to 
Regina  DeLaunay,  an'  all  the  other  doin's  of  these 
theatrical  parties  wid  their  paint  an'  powdher,  an' 
nonsense." 

"  Well,  it'll  be  a  good  thing  for  the  church,"  said 
Mr.  Grady  in  subdued  tones,  which  statement  Mrs. 
Sullivan  could  not  well  deny. 


96 

That  evening  the  steamer  was  in  a  blaze  of  light, 
and  the  audience  was  full  of  country  spirit.  This  is 
not  always  agreeable  to  public  persons,  and  is  par- 
ticularly annoying  to  the  sensitive  soul  of  an  amateur 
actor.  For  a  country  audience  is  unconventional,  and 
does  not  hesitate  to  dissent  from  Shakespeare  when 
the  methods  of  the  great  man  strike  the  country  mind 
as  ridiculous.  Hugh  could  remember  how  a  Saranac 
crowd  laughed  when  a  professional  Othello  seized  the 
pillow  to  smother  Desdemona.  The  enraged  actor 
made  up  with  Desdemona  on  the  spot,  and  both 
closed  the  scene  with  a  lively  jig.  Love-making  after 
the  stage  fashion,  unless  very  well  done,  is  sure  to 
arouse  country  mirth,  [ts  methods  have  never  come 
within  country  experience,  and  are  very  unreal  to  tell 
the  truth,  with  their  long  periods  and  exaggerated 
passion.  Hugh  felt  afraid  of  the  love  making  in 
Ingomar,  but  he  relied  on  Miss  DeLaunay's  beauty 
to  carry  the  scenes  well ;  which  it  did  no  doubt,  yet 
there  was  enough  guying  from  the  young  men  to  set 
the  girls  giggling.  The  dainty  ways  by  which  the  girl 
from  Massiha  won  the  soul  of  the  barbarian  made  the 
boys  murmur,  "oh,  would  we  were  thee,  Ingomar,"  and 
indulge  in  sounds  expressive  of  loving  tervor  towards 
nothing  in  particular.  If  Hugh  had  not  looked  so 
handsome  in  his  change  to  a  Greek  costume  there 
would  have  been  a  howl  over  what  was  beyond  the 
historical  knowledge  of  the  audience.  Sol  Tuttle  was 
sorely  puzzled  by  it.  He  took  the  piece  for  an  In- 
dian play,  and  when  Ingomar  appeared  in  Greek  cos- 
tume with  white  skin  and  flowing  locks,  whispered  to 
Mr.  Grady, 


97 

"  It's  not  true  to  natur' ;  ye  can't  bleach  an  Injun 
no  more'n  a  nigger." 

With  little  incidents  like  these,  an  occasional  shriek 
or  sob  from  too  interested  women,  a  wreck  of  scenery 
now  and  then,  a  too  open  criticism,  the  play  came  to 
an  end  and  everyone  was  satisfied  that  they  had  got 
the  worth  of  their  money  so  far,  with  more  to  come. 

The  Saranac  people  had  strong  appetites  for  their 
simple  pleasures,  and  looked  for  plenty  on  these  occa- 
sions. The  play  began  at  seven,  and  the  dancing  be- 
gan at  nine  ;  and  this  was  the  fault  of  church  affairs 
that  they  closed  at  eleven  and  pleasure  seekers  must 
be  quietly  in  bed  at  twelve,  when  rather  they  were 
quite  ready  to  keep  awake  until  four  in  the  morning. 
But  such  doings  were  not  tolerated  by  the  church  any 
more  than  round  dances.  The  play  being  ended  a 
continuation  of  it  took  place  on  the  floor  of  the  grand 
salon,  when  eight  of  the  actors  in  their  Massilian  cos- 
tumes danced  the  Lanciers  under  the  very  eyes  of  the 
delighted  country  people.  It  was  a  scene  so  rich  in 
color  that  they  fairly  gaped  in  awed  silence  as  to  the 
sound  of  the  music  Ingomar  and  the  Timarch,  old 
Polydor  and  Timon,  each  with  a  beautiful  girl  glided 
through  the  lively  and  graceful  figures  of  the  dance. 
It  was  a  piece  of  condescension  on  the  part  of  the 
DeLaunays  and  John  Wmthrop  to  stoop  to  please 
the  mob ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  they  enjoyed  the  re 
spectful  worship  quite  as  much  as  little  gods  usually 
do.  Captain  Sullivan  took  it  as  a  penance.  It  was 
all  well  enough  on  the  stage,  but  on  the  deck  of  his 
own  steamer  to  be  displaying  his  shapely  limbs  in  the 
Greek  costume  to  the  people  he  met  with  every  day 
it  was  painful.  He  endured  it  for  the  sake  of  the  priest, 


98 

who  had  requested  the  pretty  exhibition.  Such  cheer- 
ing from  the  pleased  people  when  it  was  over. 

Mrs.  Sullivan  had,  with  her  own  eyes,  seen  it,  and 
was  mixed  in  her  feelings.  She  had  come  down  to 
see  the  ship  after  the  play  was  over,  as  she  would  not 
attend  anything  so  sinful  as  a  play.  She  told  Father 
McManus  so. 

"  Then  how  comes  it,"  said  he,  "  that  you  let  your 
son  act  in  it,  and  permit  your  children  to  attend  it  ? 
You  must  not  countenance  sin  in  your  own  house- 
hold/' 

"  Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Sullivan  sourly,  "  I  know  I'm 
in  America,  not  Ireland,  an'  what's  sin  over  there's 
respectable  here,  an'  I  hould  me  tongue  since  it's  no 
use  to  talk  to  young  people  whin  the  priest  himself  s 
in  it/' 

"  Mr  Grady  believes  in  the  play,"  said  Father 
McManus. 

"  Sure  annythin'  that's  novelty  plases  him,"  she  re- 
plied with  a  polite  laugh.  "  What's  ould  is  new  nowa- 
days he  says,  and  that's  why  he  is  shinin'  himself  up 
like  ye'd  brish  an  ould  tin  pan  to  make  it  look  well." 

She  was  there  for  one  purpose,  to  discover  how 
her  ice  cream  suited  the  tastes  of  the  parish  and  take 
eloquent  vengeance  on  those  who  spoke  lightly  of  its 
flavor  or  other  qualities.  So  she  sat  down  in  the 
cosy  restaurant  of  the  ladies'  cabin,  and  was  making 
a  pretence  of  eating  when  the  dramatic  people  all 
came  in,  were  introduced  every  one  by  Hugh,  sur- 
rounded her,  and  began  to  eat  her  ice  cream  and 
cake  with  such  warm  praise  that  she  fairly  blushed. 
She  did  not  know  how  Hugh  had  prepared  them  for 
that  joke.  Miss  Del  aunay  said  very  little  about  it, 


99 

chatted  in  a  sensible,  kindly  way  that  was  far  from 
frivolity.  To  say  that  the  old  lady  was  gratified  would 
be  a  weak  way  of  expressing  her  satisfaction  ;  to  say 
that  she  looked  down  from  a  lofty  height  of  scorn 
upon  those  who  came  after  and  found  fault  with  her 
work  would  be  the  correct  thing. 

It  was  such  a  night  on  the  quarter  deck  that  Hugh 
took  the  entire  troupe  to  the  pilot  house.  Moreover, 
he  wished  to  put  a  question  and  give  a  warning  to 
Regina  DeLaunay,  and  he  thought  the  occasion  very 
proper.  They  stood  apart  from  the  others  at  his 
request. 

"  You  won't  mind  my  referring  to  the  recent  trouble 
you  have  had,"  he  said  and  felt  the  chill  of  her  man- 
ner at  once,  u  but  I  must  ask  you,  have  you  men- 
tioned the  affair  to  any  others  than  those  who  knew 
it  first  ?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  To  protect  myself.  You  remember  I  gave  you 
my  word  of  honor,  not  to  mention  the  matter — " 

"  I  beg  pardon.  It  was  my  fault.  You  were 
forced  to  it  almost.  I  led  you  perhaps  to  think 
you  should. ' 

"  I  give  you  my  word  again  without  any  compul 
sion,"  he  said  roughly,  "  for  I  do  not  wish  to  be  mixed 
up  in  a  family  affair  at  all.  I  should  not  have  inter- 
fered anyway,  but  I  really  laughed  at  the  affair  at  the 
beginning  and  was  anxious  only  to  save  those  donkeys, 
Grady  and  LaRoche,  from  braying.  I  mention  it 
now,  as  I  said,  to  protect  myself.  John  Winthrop 
knows  it." 

She  was  so  astonished  and  scared  that  she  gripped 
his  arm  fiercely  and  gave  a  low  cry. 


IOO 

"  Only  a  few  days  ago,"  said  Hugh,  "  he  asked  me 
plump  what  was  there  in  the  report  of  your  father 
being  sent  to  jail,  and  if  I  had  not  told  him  about  it. 
I  denied  everything,  of  course.  But  it  shows  that 
some  whisper  has  reached  him,  and  that  he  knows  I 
was  acquainted  with  it ;  he  thought  to  surprise  me, 
for  John  is  a  sharp  lawyer.  I  don't  think  Grady  or 
LaRoche  told  him,  for  they  would  lose  money  by 
talking.  Yet  Grady  might.  Anyway  I  don't  want 
you  to  think  for  a  moment  even  by  accident  that  I 
would  break  my  word." 

'•  I  could  not,''  she  said  earnestly. 

"So  I  repeat  to  }ou  that  I  shall  keep  the  matter 
as  safe  a  secret  as  if  I  had  never  heard  it.  Do  not 
blame  me  then  if  it  becomes  public." 

"  You  have  been  only  too  kind.  But  tell  me,  do 
)  ou  think  there  is  any  danger  ?  " 

"  From  John  Winthrop,"  he  said  in  surprise.  "  He 
would  die  before  breathing  a  word  that  would  reflect 
on  you,  or  on  the  meanest  thing  belonging  to  you." 

They  stood  silent  for  a  little  while,  and  now  that 
the  matter  was  off  his  mind  Hugh  seemed  in  the  mood 
to  talk  of  pigs  and  irying-pans.  The  lovely  night  had 
not  the  slightest  effect  on  him.  Miss  DeLaunay, 
completely  frightened  out  of  her  pride,  called  his  at 
tention  to  the  lake  under  the  light  of  a  late  moon 
and  he  said  it  meant  muggy  weather.  The  moon 
hung  low  in  the  sky  and  a  single  cloud  like  a  gate  bar 
stretched  across  its  face  ;  its  light  fell  only  on  the  dis 
tant  woods  ard  little  patches  of  water.  The  great 
bridge  crept  over  the  black  water  like  a  huge  animal, 
and  its  red  and  green  switch  lights  looked  like  terrib  e 
eyes.  The  air  was  soft.  The  members  of  the  troupe 


101 

were  talking  in  low  murmurs.  It  was  just  the  time 
for  quoting  poetry.  But  Captain  Sullivan  could  not 
talk  either  philosophy  or  poetry,  and  she  was  disap- 
pointed. 

"  I've  seen  it  so  often,"  he  explained,  "  that  it  makes 
me  think  of  going  to  bed  t  v^ry  time  I  look  at  it." 

The  country-people  meanwhile  had  got  warmed  to 
their  work,  and  the  scenes  around  were  as  full  of  fun 
as  a  circus-day.  By  a  gracious  whim  of  Father  Mc- 
Manus'  the  dancing  hours  were  increased  thirty 
minutes.  It  was  now  ten  o'clock  and  the  merrymakers 
had  still  ninety  minutes  in  which  to  get  rid  of  surplus 
spirits, — short  time  indeed  for  strong  constitutions, 
but  what  more  could  be  expected  from  a  church  affair. 

All  the  parish  from  the  grandfather  to  the  child  in 
arms,  from  the  ditch-digger  to  the  professional  man, 
was  there,  and  much  good  humor  was  the  result.  It 
can  be  guessed  how  carefully  managed  was  the  steam- 
boat festival  when  Regina  DeLaunay  and  her  set  did 
not  hesitate  to  attend.  Father  McManus  was,  of 
course,  the  centre  of  interest  and  dignity.  Wherever 
he  moved  the  eyes  of  the  crowd  followed.  He  patted 
the  children  and  bought  them  candy,  pinched  the 
cheeks  of  the  babies,  ate  ice-cream  or  oysters  with 
the  solid  men  of  the  congregation  He  did  this  so 
often  that  one  might  have  wondered  at  his  staying 
power — if  not  acquainted  with  the  facts :  He  never 
refused  an  invitation  to  refreshment,  but  a  couple  of 
oysters,  or  a  small  cup  of  coffee,  or  a  mouthful  of 
Mrs.  Sullivan's  cream  satisfied  him,  and  enabled  him 
to  avoid  disasters  to  his  digestion. 

With  severe  and  hearty  earnestness  the  young 
people  did  double  work  in  the  last  ninety  minutes. 


102 

Each  set  being  ended  the  dancers  melted  from  the 
floor  into  the  refreshment  rooms,  and  their  successors 
sprang  into  position  on  the  instant ;  the  music  went 
off  like  a  park  of  artillery,  and  the  young  feet  took 
the  measure  gaily.  Father  McManus  never  tired  of 
watching  them.  The  vast'y  polite  bowing  which  fol- 
lowed the  uproarious  command  to  salute  partners ; 
the  first  dash  forward  of  the  leading  couple ;  the  dis- 
play of  individual  character  in  solo  dancing;  the 
effect  of  quickened  movement  of  the  final  numbers, 
the  occasional  confusion,  the  inspiring  rat-tat  of  the 
rhythmic  feet,  the  soft  laughter,  the  rush  of  the  last 
minute,  the  many  sighs  of  pleasure  and  pleasant  ex 
haustion,  of  broken  conversation  and  little  shrieks, 
which  marked  the  stopping  of  the  music,  were  things 
to  give  delight.  The  country  people  perspired  at 
their  work,  and  the  director,  and  the  musicians ;  no 
fun  for  them  in  simply  moving  to  the  sound  of  music, 
they  insisted  upon  exhausting  themselves  with  laugh- 
ter and  activity.  They  objected  to  a  brief  inter- 
mission for  lunch.  Dancing  came  only  once  a  month 
and  eating  was  for  every  day  in  the  year.  They  be- 
sieged  the  priest  for  permission  to  waltz,  and  he  gra- 
ciously permitted  the  girls  to  dance  it  among  them- 
selves. Then  the  quadrilles  were  resumed.  No 
music  which  the  musicians  could  furnish  was  rapid 
enough  for  the  eager  feet,  and  the  director  exhausted 
his  figures  to  suit  the  dancers.  Right  and  left  flew 
partners  with  amazing  speed,  swinging  one  another 
like  the  turn  of  a  wheel,  bowed,  skipped,  tapped  the 
floor  as  with  drum- sticks,  flashed  from  point  to  point 
about  the  circle  and  met  again.  Ribbons  and  jewelry 
could  not  stand  the  strain,  watch-chamrs  were  trampled 


103 

like  coal-dust.  The  last  figure  was  made  up  of  Irish 
airs,  and  began  with  "all  hands  around.'  It  would 
have  made  the  stones  of  Salem  dance  to  madness  to 
hear  that  musir,  unsuited,  perhaps,  for  intellectual 
heads,  but  sure  to  take  any  mortal  listener  fatally  by 
the  heels.  The  dancers  answered  to  it  like  racers  in 
the  last  quarter  Their  faces  shone  with  delight,  and 
were  regretful  too,  f  r  was  it  not  the  last  of  this  lovely 
evening?  Cruel  Father  McManus!  He  made  a 
s  gn  to  the  director  after  a  whisper  to  the  musicians 
in  the  very  height  of  the  last  minute's  enjoyment,  and 
all  at  once  the  music  stopped,  and  the  musicians  fled. 
There  was  a  general  laugh  at  the  confusion. 

"  It  is  one  minute  after  half-past  eleven,"  the  priest 
explained.  "  I  wish  you  all  good-night." 

It  was  a  proclamation  in  behalf  of  law  and  order. 
In  less  than  five  minutes  the  steamer  was  deserted 
save  by  its  watchmen,  and  before  midnight  the  village 
of  Saranac  was  as  quiet  as  if  angels  lived  there. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

A   CHANGE    OF    HEART. 

Regina  informed  her  father  of  the  talk  with  Cap- 
tain Sullivan  on  the  steamer,  and  was  not  surprised 
at  the  characteristic  meanness  of  his  first  word5:. 

'  The  beggar  is  getting  ready  to  blackmail  us,"  he 
said,  trembling  and  paling.  "  He  wants  money,  he 
works  on  our  fears  for  a  little  and  then  makes  his  de- 
mand Ah,  that  is  what  he  was  working  for  in  all 
this.  Maybe  too  he  is  in  league  with  the  others  to 
make  money  out  of  me." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  she  answered  wearily.     "  It  does  not 


104 

look  very  reasonable  though.     Time  will  tell,   I  sup- 
pose.    He  assured  me  on  his  honor — ' 

"  Honor  1"  sneered  Mr.  DeLaunay,  in  a  fine  tone — 

"  That  he  had  said  n«thing  about  it  to  anyone,  and 
never  would.  He  thought  Grady  might  have  been 
dealing  with  Mr.  Winthrop,  and  made  a  bargain  with 
him/' 

"If  Winthrop  gets  hold  of  it  we  shall  know  very 
soon  who  dealt  with  him.  If  it  were  only  a  question 
of  money  I  would  not  care.  Regina,  this  Sullivan  is 
dangerous.  You  must  look  after  him,  tame  him,  find 
out  if  he  wants  money,  or  what  he  wants.  He  is  a 
sneak.  I  hated  him  from  the  start.  But  I — we  have 
reglected  him.  You  and  I  must  cultivate  him.  Call 
on  him,  and  invite  him  here.  I  feel  if  we  can  keep  him 
friendly  there  will  be  no  trouble  in  saving  ourselves."' 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied,  coldly.  "  I  have  an  ex- 
cuse to  call  on  his  sister  to  day,  and  I  will  try  to  do 
what  I  can.  But,  really,  I  do  not  think  you  need  fear 
him."  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  curiously. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  faith  in  what  is 
called  a  man's  honor.  You  were  always  foolish  on 
that  point,  weren't  you,  Regina  ?" 

"  Until  lately,"  she  answered  with  much  composure, 
and  a  laugh  really  good-humored. 

"  Don't  bite  me,''  said  her  father  playfully.  He 
minded  her  bitter  speeches  no  more  than  this. 

She  called  on  Mrs.  Lajeunesse  that  day  only  to  find 
Remi  much  better,  and  also  very  eager  to  get  well. 
Because  in  a  week's  time  the  boys  of  his  age  were  to 
make  their  first  communion,  and  the  mere  thought  of 
being  in  bed  on  that  occasion  had  fairly  banished  the 
fe  /er  and  given  the  lad  his  normal  spirits  again. 


105 

'•  How  very  lucky,"  said  Miss  DeLaunay  in  her 
coaxing  voice,  "  to  get  well  so  quickly  " 

"  Oh,  there  was  no  luck  in  it,"  said  Remi  confi- 
dently. '*  I  just  prayed  to  Saint  Anthony  and  it  came 
through  him.  When  I  want  anything,  really  and  truly, 
he  is  my  saint.  He's  not  as  slow  as  grandma's  Saint 
Patiick." 

"  My  dear,"  said  mamma,  "  Miss  DeLaunay  does 
not  understand  your  talk  about  saints." 

"  I  was  in  St.  Anthony's  city,"  the  young  lady  said, 
"  and  saw  his  rooms  and  churches  and  many  relics  of 
him.  He  was  a  wonderful  man." 

"  Here's  Uncle  Hugh,"  said  Remi  suddenly,  and 
his  fa-e  lighted  up  so  radiantly  that  Regina  could  not 
help  saying, 

u  He  seems  to  think  so  much  of  his  uncle." 

"He  has  every  reason,"  answered  the  mother  gent- 
ly. "  No  father  could  be  more  to  my  children  than 
Hugh.  He  is  wrapped  up  in  them." 

Miss  DeLaunay  could  see  that  after  the  captain 
had  greeted  her  and  sat  down  at  the  bedside.  The 
boy  was  in  love  with  his  uncle,  while  every  glance  and 
caress  of  the  young  man  had  a  father's  tenderness  in 
it,  and  admiration  too  ;  for  he  did  rot  fail  to  declare 
in  his  ready,  frank  way  that  he  thought  Remi  a  won- 
derful boy.  It  was  a  prevailing  opinion  in  the  house- 
hold. Miss  Regina  was  well  satisfied  with  a  kno*l- 
edge  of  his  virtues  before  she  lett  the  house,  and  re- 
ceived a  pressing  invitation  to  attend  the  church  on 
the  day  of  his  First  Communion.  Ot  course  she  ac 
cepted  graciously,  just  as  she  had  taken  a  second 
jilate  of  cream  st  the  festival,  to  please  Mrs.  Sullivan. 
It  touched  her  to  see  Captain  Sullivan's  love  for  his 


io6 

nephew,  it  was  so  womanlike  in  its  nature,  and  yet  so 
manlike  in  its  restrained  expression.  She  felt  that  a 
wrong  had  been  done  the  captain  both  by  her  father 
and  herself,  and  that  some  atonement  was  his  due. 
She  was  satisfied  that  If  ugh's  motives  had  not  only 
been  honorable  in  his  interference  of  late,  but  also 
chivalruus  ;  that  he  had  worked  sincerely  to  save  her 
father  from  disgrace  with  no  other  motive  than  that  of 
assisting  the  unfortunate.  His  whole  conduct  showed 
it.  Of  course  there  might  be  the  deepest  cratt  in  h  s 
behavior.  But  she  did  not  think  a  man  who  talked  of 
pigs  and  pans  in  a  parlor  was  really  capable  of  craft 
so  extraordinary.  A  blackmailer !  A  secret  suitor ! 
Still  the  thought  that  she  was  inexperienced  and  easily 
deceived  determined  her  not  to  gush  in  her  intercourse 
with  the  Sullivans.  If,  as  she  believed,  Hugh  Sulli- 
van had  acted  from  the  purest  motives  there  was  time 
after  a  long  acquaintance  to  show  proper  gratitude. 
For  the  present  a  little  interest  in  Mrs.  Lajeunesse, 
Rtmi,  and  the  old  lady's  cream  would  do. 

The  children  went  on  retreat  together  a  few  days 
before  the  Easter  communion.  When  Regina  called 
on  Friday  she  met  the  two  in  the  garden  walking  up 
and  down  in  silence. 

"Good-morning,"  she  said  sweetly.  They  looked 
up  at  the  sky,  fingers  to  lips,  half  smiling,  and  paid  no 
attention  to  her  gieeting.  Mrs.  Lajeunesse  admit- 
ting her  explained,  also  smiling,  that  the  rule  of  a  ie 
treat  was  silence,  and  the  children  were  cairying  out 
the  rule  literally. 

"  We've  turned  ourselves  into  a  deaf 'n  dumb  hos- 
pittle,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan  in  good  humor,  "an'  the 
but  paid  her  the  compliment  of  a  second  plate,  and 


107 

only  consolation  in  it  is  that  the  Frinch  is  gone  wid 
the  English." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  feel  a  real  interest  in  this  fes- 
tival," said  Regina.  "  What  a  change  in  those  pretty 
children,  and  what  curious  ways  of  teaching  them 
religious  lessons." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan  with  polite  curi- 
osity, "ye  had  somethin'  o'  the  same  thing  whin  ye 
wor  young  yerself." 

"  No  silence,  no  retreat,  no  walking  in  the  garden 
praying,"  said  Regina  lightly.  "  I  always  found  it 
hard  to  say  my  night- prayers.  Sometimes  I  think  I 
have  no  faith  in  prayer,  I  do  so  little  of  it." 

"  O'  coorse  iv  that's  yer  thrainin'  that's  the  way  ye 
have  a  right  to  feel,  Miss  DeLaunay.  But  it's  mighty 
poor  feelin'  to  die  on  I  shud  think." 

Preparation  caused  universal  excitement  in  spite  of 
the  rules  of  the  retreat.  Remi  had  a  new  suit,  new 
hat,  new  gloves  and  shoes,  and  Mrs.  Sullivan  had 
consented  to  appear  in  a  new  dress,  bonnet  and  shawl 
for  the  first  time  in  years.  Then  the  white  sash 
which  the  boy  was  to  wear  was  not  of  a  width  to  suit 
her  large  taste,  its  narrowness  resulted  in  one  dispute 
with  her  daughter,  while  another  followed,  in  whispers 
of  course,  as  to  whether  the  sash  should  cross  the 
right  shoulder  or  the  left.  It  was  like  walking  among 
eggs  Saturday  evening  after  the  children  had  come 
home  from  confession,  for  Remi  was  so  determined  to 
keep  from  committing  a  single  fault  until  bed  time 
that  if  his  grandmother  spoke  a  word  or  made  an 
unusual  movement  his  eyes  rolled  at  her  as  at  one 
who  had  commited  a  sin.  She  was  glad  when  his 
mother  finally  lodged  him  in  bed,  and  she  had  leisure 


io8 

to  drape  herself  in  her  new  garments  "  to  get  the 
hang  o'  them  before  the  morrow."  The  excitement 
was  not  diminished  when  Remi  woke  up  at  eleven 
o'clock  with  a  parched  throat  and  a  cry  for  water, 
shedding  copious  tears  lest  it  was  after  twelve,  and  he 
had  broken  his  fast  in  drinking.  They  had  to  show 
him  the  clock  before  he  could  rest  in  comfort. 
Then  there  was  peace  until  daylight. 

The  April  day  was  charming  in  Saranac,  a  reil  first 
communion  day,  not  too  cold,  clear  as  crystal,  and  the 
dry,  hard  earth  full  of  promise  oi  spring.  The  blue 
lake  and  its  misty  shores  looked  unutterably  lovely 
in  the  morning  sun.  The  shabby  streets  were  lighted 
up  by  groups  of  people  in  their  best  attire,  and  each 
group  surrounded  a  boy  in  a  white  sash  or  a  girl  in  a 
wreath  and  veil  and  white  dress,  as  beautiful  to  look 
at  as  an  angel  might  be.  Regina  thought  so,  and 
her  thought  was  already  expressed  in  the  faces  of  the 
people.  Among  the  dignified  members  of  the  proces- 
sion that  lined  the  street  to  the  church,  none  so  dig- 
nified as  Mr.  Tim  Grady,  who  could  scarcely  believe 
his  two  eyes  when  he  saw  the  Sullivans  riding  to 
Mass  in  DeLaunay's  carriage.  He  was  walking  at 
the  head  of  a  group,  in  which  were  Captain  LaRoche 
and  his  wife,  and  discoursing  on  theology  fluently. 
Regina  would  have  turned  her  face  away  when  she 
saw  him,  but  that  the  sorrowful,  lovely  face  of  Mrs. 
LaRoche  attracted  her  when  she  recognized  the  cap- 
tain. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Lajeunesse,  "  is  that 
woman,  the  tall  one  with  the  very  sad  face,  the  wife 
of  Captain  LaRoche  ?" 

"  God  help  her,"  answered  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "  it  is. 


She  carres  the  sad  heart  to-day,  the  crayther,  thinkin' 
o'  the  b'y  t^at  made  his  first  cmnmunion  nearly  twen'y  • 
five  years  ago,  an'  threw  grace  an'  all  away  for  money 
an'  gamblin'  an'  drtnkin'.  I  reminder  as  well  as  I  do 
this  minute  the  day  she  took  him  to  the  church  jist 
as  well  as  we're  takin'  Remi ;  an'  ye  may  be  sure  she 
thinks  of  it  too,  when  she  sees  the  childher  dhressed 
up  so  nice  for  their  first  communion." 

A  troubled,  frightened  look  came  into  the  face  of 
Remi's  mother,  and  Regina  grew  all  at  once  gloomy. 
Her  father  had  atoned  with  money  for  the  mischief 
he  had  d  me,  but  what  money  could  heal  the  wound 
in  this  woman's  heart  or  restore  her  son. 

"  All  she  prays  for  now,"  continued  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
"is  that  he  may  come  home  to  die  wid  the  priest  an' 
be  buried  in  consecrated  ground.  I  often  heard  her 
say  she'd  be  happy  as  a  bride  iv  his  body  were  lyin'  in 
consecrated  ground." 

"  Mother,"  said  Mrs.  Lajeunesse  trembling,  "  don't 
talk  of  those  things  on  a  morning  like  this." 

"  The  Ooss  o'  Christ  be  about  us,"  cried  the  old 
lady,  "  but  I  clane  forgot  meself.  I  declare  I  ought 
to  be  sthruck  dumb  on  tKese  occasions." 

Regina  took  one  long  earnest  look  at  the  face  of 
Ame^e's  mother  before  the  carriage  passed,  and 
felt  its  lines  of  sorrow  burn  into  her  mind  with  a  sense 
of  physical  pain. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  whispered  to  Mrs.  Sullivan  as 
they  left  the  carriage,  "  the  poor  woman  prays  for  her 
son." 

Mrs.  Sullivan  answered  with  a  gesture. 

"  Do  you  think  her  prayers  will  be  amwered  ?" 

"  As  sure  as  you  an'  I,  Miss  DeLaunay,  are  standin' 


here,  Amede"e  LaRoche'll  be  buried  in  that  cimmiU 
ary,"  declared  the  old  lady  with  such  emphasis  that  a 
load  was  lifted  off  Regina's  heart  Mr.  Jo  m  Win- 
throp  himself  assisted  them  to  alight  from  the  car- 
riage, and  brought  Regina  to  the  seat  he  had  secured 
for  her  father  and  mother.  This  pew  was  the  centre 
of  attraction  for  curious  eyes  that  morning.  Many 
were  surprised  to  see  Mr.  DeLaunay  genuflect  and 
bless  himself,  but  the  smile  that  his  wife  smiled  at 
these  motions  of  habit  they  could  not  see  because  the 
lac*y  did  not  permit  it  to  appear  on  the  surface.  The 
church  was  clean  bat  dingy.  The  plaster  was  broken 
here  and  there,  the  stoves  were  woeful  to  look  at,  and 
the  altar  was  a  flimsy  and  miserable  affair.  Regina 
noted  these  things  when  her  eyes  were  not  wandering 
to  the  pew  where  AmedeVs  mother  sat  eyeing  the 
happy  children  with  a  feeling  that  Miss  DeLaunay 
knew  was  in  the  poor  mother's  heart. 

Her  father  alrr.ost  dozed,  her  mother  looked  bored, 
and  John  Winthrop  kept  up  a  running  fire  of  comments 
which  spoiled  everything.  He  did  not  like  the  sing- 
ing, or  the  sermon,  the  standing  up  or  the  sitting 
down,  the  priest  or  his  people ;  and  he  kept  telling 
these  things  to  Regina  in  a  comical  way  until  the 
spirit  of  the  scene  had  left  her.  The  parish  priest  was 
not  a  good  talker,  and  his  sermon  was  tiresome ;  so 
was  the  singing.  But  the  children  were  lovely,  and  their 
innocent  devotion  would  charm  the  hardest.  Regina 
felt  tue  reverence  of  the  people  at  the  august  moments 
of  the  Mass.  The  hush  was  thrilling.  When  the 
little  white-clothed  children  took  their  places  at  the 
al'ar-rail  every  neck  was  craned  to  get  a  better  look, 
and  many  an  eye  was  moistened.  Remi  among  his 


Ill 

rougher  companions  looked  angelic.  His  uncle  and 
John  Winthrop  looked  at  him  with  interest,  and  their 
faces  turned  profile  together  gave  Regina  a  chance  to 
study  them  at  the  same  moment.  The  study  was  a 
revelation.  The  fine  cultured  features  of  the  lawyer 
were  disfigured  by  an  expression  of  cold  pity  for  super 
stition;  the  ruddier,  plumper  face  ©f  the  captain 
seemed  transfigured  by  feeling.  In  this  instance  the 
less  noble  face  had  evidently  the  nobler  heart! 

After  the  children  had  received  the  communion  the 
elders  went  up  to  the  holy  table,  and  among  them 
were  the  Sullivans.  The  expression  of  pity  on  Win- 
throp's  face  turned  to  curiosity  on  seeing  Hugh  leave 
his  seat  to  take  part  in  the  ceremony;  then  he  seemed 
amused  at  the  grav;ty  of  Hugh's  manner,  and  looked 
at  his  nails  awkwardly  for  a  while.  He  could  not  be 
cynical  here  for  he  knew  his  friend's  sincerity;  he 
only  looked  puzzled,  and  soon  became  cynical  again. 

"  Papa,"  whispered  Regina,  when  the  singing  be- 
gan, "  the  woman  in  black  just  ahead  of  you  in  the 
other  aisle  is  AmedeVs  mother." 

Mr.  DeL^unay  looked  languidly  in  that  direction, 
and  saw  the  poor  mother  pull  her  veil  over  a  face 
streaming  with  tears  while  she  hurried  from  the 
church  to  prevent  the  sobs  that  struggled  for  loud  ut- 
teran^e.  Regina's  face  was  expressive  as  she  met 
father's  gaze. 

"  She  had  fourteen  children,"  he  whispered  with  a 
smile.  "  I  wish  this  affair  would  end." 

It  was  ending  almost  at  that  moment,  but  he  was 
not  familiar  enough  with  ceremonies  he  still  believed 
in  to  know  that.  His  daughter  felt  the  pleasure  of 
witnessing  such  a  scene  damped  by  the  sorrow  of  a 


112 

bereft  mother,  the  heartlessness  of  her  father  and  the 
indifference  of  the  others.  What  a  contrast  they 
were  to  the  Sullivans  and  the  simple  people  about 
them !  In  all  her  relations  with  her  friends  and 
neighbors  she  had  never  passed  through  a  single 
scene  where  human  emotions  were  so  fully  and  nobly 
moved  to  spiritual  things.  It  might  be  superstition, 
folly,  witchcraft.  If  so,  what  a  pity  that  the  ways  cf 
evil  should  have  beauties  that  the  ways  of  trutn  had 
not !  Feeling  this  sentiment  she  expressed  it  to  Win- 
throp  and  the  captain  as  they  stood  by  her  carriage 
after  all  was  over.  She  expressed  it  vigorously,  notic- 
ing that  the  lawyer  looked  tired  and  the  boatman  pale 
but  exalted. 

"  Millinery  and  tears  in  equal  proportions  affect  any 
woman,"  sneered  the  lawyer. 

u  It  was  our  sincerity  that  affected  Miss  DeLaunay," 
was  the  Captain's  serious  answer. 

These  two  answers  set  her  thinking  more  deeply 
than  ever,  and  her  look  as  she  drove  away  made  poor 
Winthrop  heart-sick. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WINTHROP'S   TEMPTATION. 

John  Winthrop's  heart  was  so  wholly  in  Regina's 
keeping  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be  her  hus- 
band one  day  or  cease  to  live.  He  was  therefore 
greatly  relieved  when  navigation  opened  for  the 
passenger  steamers  and  Captain  Hugh  one  fine  even- 
ing sailed  awav.  For  thirty-six  hours  the  Captam 
would  be  out  of  Saranac,  and  out  of  temptation ;  and 


"3 

the  impression  which  he  had  made  on  Regina  might 
weaken.  Winthrop  was  still  more  pleased  when  the 
necessities  of  business  and  the  ordinary  accidents  of 
life  kept  the  lady  and  the  sailor  from  meeting  for  a 
whole  month.  Had  he  paid  attention  to  the  fact 
that  Elise  and  Remi  visited  Miss  DeLaunay  every 
week  he  would  have  been  concerned ;  or  had  he  seen 
her  every  other  morning  at  dawn  watching  the 
Adirondack  as  it  appeared  around  Iron  Point  and 
swept  up  to  the  dock  he  would  surely  have  despaired. 
The  children  told  Regina  more  about  the  captain 
than  she  could  have  learned  herself  from  older  people. 
She  liked  to  talk  about  him.  She  was  building  up  in 
her  soul  an  image  of  the  plain,  blunt  fellow  as  he 
really  was,  and  she  was  in  admiration  of  it.  It  was 
easy  for  her  to  rise  in  the  sunny  morning  and  watch 
the  steamer  sailing  out  of  the  sun  as  it  were  into  the 
harbor.  Its  noble  outlines  and  movement  pleased  the 
eye  ;  when  she  thought  of  the  guiding  mind  within  it 
the  thought  stirred  her  heart.  All  night  the  Captain 
was  at  his  post  guiding  the  ship  through  the  lake 
channels.  It  was  really  he  rather  than  the  ship  who 
came  so  proudly  and  nobly  into  port.  She  said  to 
herself  her  interest  arose  from  the  fact  that  Captain 
Hugh  was  so  different  from  the  men  about  her.  She 
thought  of  her  father  and  sighed  ;  and  remembered 
Winthrop's  sneering  face  in  the  church  and  sighed 
again.  If  Winthrop  could  have  seen  and  known  ! 

After  a  time  he  did  see  enough  to  disturb  him 
severely.  In  every  visit  he  made  her  he  noticed  that 
his  dear  girl,  if  it  was  evening,  went  out  on  the  ver- 
anda to  see  the  Captain's  ship  sail  down  the  bay, 
and  once  Mrg  DeLaunay  said. 


H4 

•'  Regina's  devotion  to  that  boat  is  fervid  ;  she  never 
misses  a  sight  of  it." 

But  in  Saranac  every  one  had  the  same  devotion. 

"  You  should  see  it  in  the  morning,"  he  began,  and 
Regina  interrupted  him  to  say 

"  I  do  see  it  in  the  morning,  if  I  am  awake,"  and 
he  was  actually  suspicious  enough  to  watch  her  win- 
dow for  a  week  after  to  satisfy  himself  that  she  awoke 
for  this  event.  Next  he  discovered  the  visits  and 
talks  of  the  children,  and  his  soul  was  filled  with 
glocm. 

A  certainty  unfavorable  to  our  hopes  is  more  en- 
durable than  the  state  of  doubt,  but  doubt  has  also 
its  compensations.  Winthrop  could  not  see  them. 
He  longed  to  end  his  miserable  swaying  between  joy 
and  despair,  but  as  Miss  DeLaunay  had  never  encour- 
aged him  to  woo  her  he  dared  not  risk  all  on  an  ill- 
prepared  proposal.  Still  the  situation  looked  black 
for  him.  When  Hugh's  name  was  mentioned  in  Re 
gina's  presence  a  light  came  into  her  eyes  that  alarmed 
him.  It  would  seem  there  was  an  understanding  be- 
tween them. 

He  had  no  confidant  to  help  him  bear  his  misery 
and  give  him  comfort.  His  father  he  did  not  treat 
very  kindly  in  his  confidences,  as  he  gave  him  only 
those  which  concerned  the  worst  side  of  his  charac- 
ter ;  and  the  old  gentleman  shrank  from  them,  much 
as  he  loved  his  boy.  John  loved  his  father  somewhat. 
But  the  elder's  business  capacity  being  destroyed  by 
sickness,  the  other  elements  of  his  character  were  not 
very  pleasing.  He  suffered  from  John's  ill-humor 
particularly,  because  through  it  he  sometimes  discov- 
ered the  cause  of  the  young  man's  trouble.  In  these 


"5 

trying  days  young  Winthrop's  gloom  cast  a  gloom 
over  their  bachelor  household. 

*•  What's  the  matter,  Joha  ?"  said  the  father  ten- 
derly. 

"  Same  old  trouble,"  said  John,  "girl." 

*'  You  know  my  feelings  on  that  particular  girl," 
said  the  senior. 

"  And  you  know  mine,"  significantly. 

"I  should  think  I  did.     What's  the  matter  now?" 

"  Doubt.  Not  certain  but  another  fellow  is  taking 
the  lead.  You  look  as  if  you  would  like  that  to  hap- 
pen," and  John  glared  at  nis  father. 

"  Not  under  the  circumstances,"  and  the  old  man 
grew  a  shade  paler.  "  I  pray  for  your  success  ' 

"  Good,  dad,"  said  John,  surprised  into  a  laugh, 
"  I  didn't  know  you  had  begun  to  be  pious." 

"Well,  I  have.  Sickness,  I  suppose,  has  won  me, 
and  then  I  see  no  help  anywhere.  When  a  man's 
enemy  is  sporting  his  hard  earned  money  under  his 
very  eyes  unpunished,  and  when  a  man's  own  son 
says  he  will  commit  suicide  if  a  certain  girl  rejects 
him,  and  there  is  no  way  to  help  or  prevent  or  right 
these  things,  what  can  he  do  but  pray  to  One  that 
rules  all  things  to  help  him  out  of  his  danger  ?  I  know 
you're  in  earnest,  John,  and  though  I  don't  like  the 
family,  I'd  sooner  you'd  marry  every  soul  in  it  than 
lose  you  before  my  time.  So  I'm  praying  for  you." 

"  Dad,  you're  too  good,"  said  John  squeezing  his 
father's  hand.  "  I  know  I  distress  you  w«th  such  talk, 
but  I  can't  help  it  W.ien  I  think  of  losing  that 
dear  girl  a  blackness  comes  over  me  that  makes  death 
seem  a  trifle  compared  with  it.  I''  ,  been  in  the 
dumps  before,  and  I'll  get  out  of  these  all  right. 


Nothing  serious  has  happened.  It's  only  suspicion. 
You  keep  on  praying  I  don't  believe  in  it,  but  I 
like  to  know  you  are  doing  your  best  for  me,  as  you 
always  did." 

Life,  career,  happiness  hung  in  the  balance  with 
Regina's  love.  This  was  so  true  that  he  often  grew 
suddenly  weak  and  sick  and  cast  himself  in  anguish 
on  the  ground ;  he  saw  it  all,  the  horrid  ending,  his 
father's  misery,  and  perhaps  that  eternity  of  punish- 
ment in  which  he  should  wander  desolate  of  her.  He 
carried  in  his  pocket  a  letter  which  he  was  tempted 
to  tear  into  pieces  and  cast  from  him  forever.  He 
would  read  it  over  and  over,  threaten  it,  return  it  to 
his  pocket. 

It  was  Hugh's  letter  with  the  reference  to  De- 
Launay's  crime.  For  destroying  an  ideal  it  would  be 
the  engine.  Regina's  trust  in  the  man  who  had 
promised  her  secrecy  and  violated  the  promise  would 
not  hold  a  minute  after  reading  that  letter.  But  he 
could  not  commit  this  crime  against  the  comrade  of 
his  heart.  His  nature,  honorable  to  the  finest  sense 
of  honor,  turned  against  it.  Hugh  and  he  had  gone 
through  blood  together,  and  since  childhood  had  been 
bound  by  the  closest  ties.  He  knew  the  revelation  in 
the  letter  was  an  unconscious  slip  of  the  mind.  The 
missive  ought  to  be  destroyed,  and  the  temptation 
forever  removed,  but  he  had  not  the  strength  to  de- 
stroy it.  He  put  it  back  always  with  the  uncomforta- 
ble feeling  that  he  was  keeping  it,  as  he  had  kept  it 
all  these  months,  to  use  against  h's  friend.  But  he 
assured  himself  that  death  would  be  an  easier  and 
pleasanter  fate  than  dishonor,  and  he  said  aloud  that 
the  lake  would  receive  his  living  body  before  his  hand 


lent  itself  to  such  a  deed.  The  utterance  of  so  noble 
a  sentiment  usually  quieted  his  conscience,  and  made 
him  good-tempered  and  hopeful  for  some  days. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE   STEAMER'S    FATE. 

The  dock  at  Whitehall,  where  Captain  Sullivan 
moored  his  steamer  every  other  day  was  a  bright  place 
on  a  summer  evening.  Miss  D^Launay  liked  it  bet 
ter  than  the  sights  in  Saratoga.  Oi  her  return  from 
a  few  weeks'  visit  to  the  Springs  she  told  the  captain 
of  her  liking,  and  was  at  once  seated  where  the 
scene  of  bustle  and  excitement  could  be  stud- 
ied at  leisure.  The  night  was  dark  and 
cool,  and  the  lamps  shone  all  the  better  for  it.  The 
b  g  steamer  lay  at  her  mooring  like  a  captive  ghost, 
while  the  dock  was  the  source  of  noise  and  uproar 
Mr  DeLaunay  thought  it  was  tiresome  and  was  for 
going  to  bed,  until  Regina  had  interested  him  by 
pointing  out  the  curious  things  that  delighted  her 
amid  the  confusion.  Then  he  became  interested 
himself,  and  wondered  how  the  deuce  she  could  dis- 
cover them 

A  tramp  hung  around  the  freight  gangway  and 
talked  at  odd  times  with  the  men.  His  rags  drew  a 
laugh  froai  DeLaunay  for  their  oddity  He  carried 
the  rags  with  dignity,  Regina  thought,  and  with  more 
manliness  and  more  independence  than  tramps  had 
usually.  His  face  seemed  dark  and  savage  from  a 
distance,  probably  because  his  wide-rimmed  ragged 
hat  shaded  it  too  much. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  him  ?"  said  Mr.  De- 
Launay wishing  to  be  amused. 


n6 

Nothing  serious  has  happened.  It's  only  suspicion. 
You  keep  on  praying  I  don't  believe  in  it,  but  I 
like  to  know  you  are  doing  your  best  for  me,  as  you 
always  did." 

Life,  career,  happiness  hung  in  the  balance  with 
Regina's  love.  This  was  so  true  that  he  often  grew 
suddenly  weak  and  sick  and  cast  himself  in  anguish 
on  the  ground ;  he  saw  it  all,  the  horrid  ending,  his 
father's  misery,  and  perhaps  that  eternity  of  punish- 
ment in  which  he  should  wander  desolate  of  her.  He 
carried  in  his  pocket  a  letter  which  he  was  tempted 
to  tear  into  pieces  and  cast  from  him  forever.  He 
would  read  it  over  and  over,  threaten  it,  return  it  to 
his  pocket. 

It  was  Hugh's  letter  with  the  reference  to  De- 
Launay's  crime.  For  destroying  an  ideal  it  would  be 
the  engine.  Regina's  trust  in  the  man  who  had 
promised  her  secrecy  and  violated  the  promise  would 
not  hold  a  minute  after  reading  that  letter.  But  he 
could  not  commit  this  crime  against  the  comrade  of 
his  heart.  His  nature,  honorable  to  the  finest  sense 
of  honor,  turned  against  it.  Hugh  and  he  had  gone 
through  blood  together,  and  since  childhood  had  been 
bound  by  the  closest  ties.  He  knew  the  revelation  in 
the  letter  was  an  unconscious  slip  of  the  mind.  The 
missive  ought  to  be  destroyed,  and  the  temptation 
forever  removed,  but  he  had  not  the  strength  to  de- 
stroy it.  He  put  it  back  always  with  the  uncomforta- 
ble feeling  that  he  was  keeping  it,  as  he  had  kept  it 
all  these  months,  to  use  against  h's  friend.  But  he 
assured  himself  that  death  would  be  an  easier  and 
pleasanter  fate  than  dishonor,  and  he  said  aloud  that 
the  lake  would  receive  his  living  body  before  his  hand 


lent  itself  to  such  a  deed.  The  utterance  of  so  noble 
a  sentiment  usually  quieted  his  conscience,  and  made 
him  good-tempered  and  hopeful  for  some  days. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE   STEAMER'S   FATE. 

The  dock  at  Whitehall,  where  Captain  Sullivan 
moored  his  steamer  every  other  day  was  a  bright  place 
on  a  summer  evening.  Miss  DeLaunay  liked  it  bet 
ter  than  the  sights  in  Saratoga.  Oi  her  return  from 
a  few  weeks'  visit  to  the  Springs  she  told  the  captain 
of  her  liking,  and  was  at  once  seated  where  the 
scene  of  bustle  and  excitement  could  be  stud- 
ied at  leisure.  The  night  was  dark  and 
cool,  and  the  lamps  shone  all  the  better  for  it.  The 
b  g  steamer  lay  at  her  mooring  like  a  captive  ghost, 
while  the  dock  was  the  source  of  noise  and  uproar 
Mr  DeLaunay  thought  it  was  tiresome  and  was  for 
going  to  bed,  until  Regina  had  interested  him  by 
pointing  out  the  curious  things  that  delighted  her 
amid  the  confusion.  Then  he  became  Interested 
himself,  and  wondered  how  the  deuce  she  could  dis- 
cover them 

A  tramp  hung  around  the  freight  gangway  and 
talked  at  odd  times  with  the  men.  His  rags  drew  a 
laugh  from  DeLaunay  for  their  oddity  He  carried 
the  rags  with  dignity,  Regina  thought,  and  with  more 
manliness  and  more  independence  than  tramps  had 
usually.  His  face  seemed  dark  and  savage  from  a 
distance,  probably  because  his  wide-rimmed  ragged 
hat  shaded  it  too  much. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  him  ?"  said  Mr.  De- 
Launay wishing  to  be  amused. 


n8 

"  He  is  a  stranger  ia  this  place,"  she  replied,  "  his 
rags  are  an  accident.  He  is  not  afraid  of  anything. 
He  is  a  man.  But  some  trouble  agitates  him.  He 
ii  on  the  dock  for  a  purpose,  and  thinks  he  may  not 
accomplish  it." 

<k  No  doubt  he  drinks,"  said  the  father  sorrowfully, 
for  Regina's  admiration  for  a  man  made  him  feel  un- 
comfortable. 

"  That  may  be  his  trouble.  Do  you  know  him, 
Captain?" 

Hugh  had  come  up  for  a  moment  to  assure  himself 
of  her  comfort. 

"  A  common  tramp,"  he  replied,  "  anxiou?  to  steal 
his  way  up  the  lake.  Probably  stole  it  down  last 
night  or  last  week." 

Her  father  laughed,  Regina  shook  her  head. 

"  He  is  not  a  tramp  of  these  parts,"  she  said,  ''*  and 
there  is  something  notable,  peculiar  about  him  " 

Hugh  bent  over  the  rail  and  took  a  closer  look. 

"  I  think  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "  He  is  a  stran- 
ger and  something  above  the  common.  If  he  wants 
a  ride  I'll  give  it  to  him.'" 

"  How  generous!" 

u  Your  interest  in  him  has  paid  his  fare, '  said  the 
gallant  Captain  with  a  bow,  and  he  went  away  laugh- 
ing at  her  evident  surprise. 

"In  the  name  of  all  that's  chivalrous  where  did  he 
get  that  bow  ?  Is  not  this  the  converser  on  pigs  and 
frying  pans." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Regina,  '•  he  is  playing  a  well- 
rehearsed  part  as  he  played  Ingomar.  Then  he  is  at 
home  on  the  water  you  know,  and  all  sailors  are  po- 


lite  on  their  own  element.  But  please  observe  our 
tramp.  Good  fortune  has  reached  him." 

Hugh  had  addressed  the  man,  who  listened  to 
the  Captain's  remarks  pleased  but  not  cringing. 
Then  he  bowed  in  a  way  that  again  astonished  De- 
Launay,  came  towards  the  boat  with  Sullivan,  and 
stood  for  a  minute  hat  in  hand  while  the  Captain 
spoke  to  a  deck  official.  His  weather-tanned  face, 
thin  and  severe  in  feature,  was  worth  a  study.  Dissi- 
pation had  exhausted  it,  but  a  dare  devil  nature  was 
quite  visible  in  every  line.  Even  DeLaunay  was  able 
to  form  an  opinion  on  it. 

"  A  rough,  bad  life  has  ruined  him,"  he  said,  "  and 
he  won't  last  long.  But  what  a  devil  he  must  have 
been  in  his  day." 

"  You  mean,  what  a  man  he  must  have  been !"  said 
Regina ;  and  her  clear  tones  reached  the  tramp.  He 
looked  up,  smiled,  bowed  as  if  admitting  the  truth  of 
the  remark ;  then  a  deck-hand  took  charge  and  bo*  e 
him  away. 

"  He  believes  you,"  said  DeLaunay.  "  More  bow- 
ing. Etiquette  from  tramps !  Chivalry  from  boat- 
men !  Save  us !" 

The  big  boat  glided  from  the  dock,  and  away 
through  the  south  hills  into  the  lake.  The  lovely  shores 
around  were  sparsely  settled  by  lake  gypsies  and  the 
lights  from  their  low  cabins  twinkled  in  the  night.  The 
dark  hills  were  visible  where  their  rough  tops  showed 
against  the  sky.  The  stillness  of  that  beautiful  region 
was  disturbed  only  by  the  panting  of  the  steamer  and 
the  churning  of  the  water  under  the  paddle  wheels.  It 
was  like  moving  through  a  land  of  mystery  in  charge 
of  a  powerful  spirit. 


I2O 

When  the  boat  swung  into  a  landing  Regina  saw 
in  miniature  the  scenes  of  the  dock  at  Whitehall,  the 
deck  hands  rushing  about  in  the  glare  of  the  lamps, 
nervous  travellers,  and  lazy  sight-seers.  These  land 
ings  were  numerous,  and  being  on  both  shores  gave 
the  steamer  a  zigzag  course.  There  wis  an  ever 
shifting  horizon  of  mountains,  of  shores  dotted  at  ran- 
dom with  the  lights  ot  remote  villages. 

The  scene  became  m^re  im  pressive  when  Captain 
Sullivan  took  them  to  the  wheel  house,  where  the 
chief  pilot  and  his  assistant  guided  the  vessel  in  the 
open  lake.  The  hurricane  deck  was  in  darkness,  and 
the  lake  with  its  shores  lay  distinct  to  the  eye,  the 
smooth  waters  like  a  map  at  their  feet.  The  old  pilot 
told  her  lake  stories,  and  permitted  her  to  hold  the 
wheel  spokes  and  help  change  the  course  of  the  ship. 
What  a  thrill  moved  her  as  she  felt  the  great  panting 
creature  turn  so  gently  under  her  weak  hand ! 

"  You  have  seer,  the  prince  of  Champlain  pilots," 
said  Hugh  later,  "a  reputation  which  secures  him  a 
position  for  life.  He  must  have  assistants  and  an 
attendant.  He  has  become  a  morphine  eater  in  a 
mild  way.  Since  he  made  this  fact  known  the  com- 
pany gave  him  an  attendant,  another  pilot  who  never 
leaves  him  an  instant  while  he  is  at  the  wheel.  The 
old  fellow  wanted  to  resign." 

"  That  was  honest  of  him,"  said  Regina,  "  and 
clever  of  the  company  to  retain  him." 

"  He  is  worth  thousands  to  them,"  said  the  Captain. 
"He  has  never  made  a  blunder  that  cost  them  any- 
thing. Even  his  morphine  habit  has  never  yet  inter- 
fered with  his  duties  and  his  skill.  But  of  course  it 
may  sometime." 


til 

"  It  surely  will,"  said  DeLaunay, "  and  I  am  glad  the, 
company  takes  proper  measures  to  prevent  accident.' 

Captain  Sullivan  showed  the  father  and  daughter  every 
courtesy.  His  attentions  were  numerous  and  without 
awkwardness.  He  km»w  just  what  to  do,  and  did  it 
like  a  master.  His  uniformed  figure  looked  majestic 
to  Regina  in  her  present  gentle  temper.  His  man- 
ner towards  the  passengers  was  as  suave  and  even  as 
that  of  a  beau.  She  was  certain  he  said  nothing  of 
pigs  and  frying-pans  in  his  conversation  with  them, 
nor  did  he  bring  up  these  vulgar  figures  once  in  his 
chatting  with  her.  The  official  was  a  less  faulty  per- 
son than  the  private  citizen.  Being  much  given  to 
comparison  of  late  she  could  not  help  contrasting  the 
two  men  who  sat  with  her.  Her  father's  elegance  of 
manner  was  no  match  for  the  flexibility  and  youth  of 
the  Captain.  It  looked  effeminate  beside  that  dignity 
which  perfect  health,  a  fine  uniform,  the  conscious- 
ness of  authority  and  heavy  responsibility  gave  the 
chief  officer. 

To  be  a  commanding  man  was  much,  and  all  her 
impressions  of  months  back  concerning  Hugh  Sulli- 
van came  to  her  soul  at  once  like  the  tones  of  a  per- 
fect chord,  and  roused  her  to  admiration.  His  blunt 
honest  manner,  his  admirable  acting,  the  love  of  his 
relatives  for  him,  his  religious  feeling,  the  honest 
services  he  had  rendered  her  father,  his  unconscious 
humility  under  her  cruel  indifference  to  these  services, 
the  tender  love  for  his  sister's  children  ;  these  things 
stirred  her  heart  deeply  because  she  was  now  looking 
at  him  clothed  with  power,  and  wearing  it  with  the 
courage  and  sobriety  that  distinguish  men  capable 
to  rule. 


S22 

Beside  him  not  only  her  father  but  all  the  men  she 
had  ever  known  seemed  insignificant.  John  Win 
throp,  soldier  though  he  had  been,  was  no  exception. 
Alas  for  John !  He  came  aboard  at  one  obscure 
landing,  conscious  that  fate  had  tricked  him  in  delaying 
the  train  which  would  have  given  him  the  steamer  at 
Whitehall.  The  fascination  of  a  uniform,  the  mag- 
netism of  a  handsome  chief  officer,  and  four  hours' 
time  were  fatal  influences  against  him  ;  but  confiding 
in  the  power  of  night,  stars,  lake  and  clouded  shore 
to  move  the  sentimental  soul,  he  set  himself  to  use 
them.  He  talked  to  the  DeLaunays  quite  skilfully, 
until  Regina  felt  warm  and  enthusiastic  at  his  clever 
expression  of  the  feelings  the  night  journey  had 
waked  in  her  own  heart.  His  appearance  would  not 
have  pleased  her  earlier  in  the  evening,  as  it  might 
have  spoiled  her  contemplation  of  the  Captain's  good 
qualities ;  when  this  contemplation  was  ended  by 
sleepiness,  Winthrop's  lively  talk  and  delicate  senii 
ment  were  very  agreeable  What  mortification  for 
him  did  he  know  his  efforts  were  so  lightly  consider- 
ed ;  what  despair  had  he  seen  her  mentally  comparing 
him  with  the  Captain  to  Sullivan's  increased  glory.  In 
the  Captain,  Regina  concluded,  there  was  less  senti- 
ment, more  action.  Then,  in  spite  of  John's  senti- 
mental charms,  she  went  to  bed  and  slept. 

Some  one  else  also  slept  that  evening  to  the  detri- 
ment of  the  steamship  corporation.  At  two  o'clock  of 
the  morning  the  Captain  met  the  pilot's  attendant  on  his 
way  to  the  wheelhouse,  which  he  had  left  for  a  minute 
after  the  steamer  touched  at  Westport.  This  was  a 
breach  of  rules  since  his  orders  were  not  to  leave  the 
pilot  for  an  instant.  The  Captain  sharply  reproved  him. 


123 

"  The  old  man  has  no  morphine  in  him  to  night,'' 
said  the  attendant,  "he  told  me  so.  I  have  been 
away  only  a  minute.  I  left  him  as  wide  awake  as  you 
are." 

"  No  excuse,"  said  the  Captain  sharply.  "  Never 
let  this  occur  again/' 

Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  Regina's  presence  on 
board.  He  had  hardly  spoken  the  word  when  some 
thing  curious  and  inexplicable  happened.  The  deck 
slanted  gently  so  that  the  Captain  thought  for  an  in- 
stant that  it  was  caving  in  aft,  the  speed  suddenly  fell 
off,  then  ceased,  the  steamer  tilted  slightly  to  larboard, 
and  a  light  crash  was  heard  forward.  That  was  all. 
There  was  no  disturbance,  and  but  for  the  slant  of  the 
deck  and  the  stoppage  no  one  could  suspect  danger. 
At  the  first  pitch  of  the  vessel  the  two  officers  sprang 
to  the  upper  deck.  One  glance  made  plain  the  dis- 
aster and  relieved  their  worst  fears.  The  Adirondack 
was  ashore  on  a  slanting  rock  bottom  and  by  the 
rarest  of  good  fortune  had  tilted  gently  in  the  right 
direction.  Her  side  rested  solidly  and  safely  against 
the  rock  wall  of  the  precipitous  shore,  while  the  bow 
had  mounted  a  low  ridge  and  of  its  own  weight  fallen 
on  the  other  side.  This  was  the  crash  heard  In  the 
wheelhouse  stood  the  pilot  sound  asleep,  a  morphine 
sleep,  with  the  spokes  of  the  wheel  in  his  hands,  mo- 
tionless, unconscious. 

The  next  instant  found  Hugh  speeding  to  the  en- 
gine room.  The  engine  had  been  stopped.  On  his  way 
he  met  two  figures  in  the  deserted  salon,  Regina  and 
Winthrop,  pale  and  wondering. 

"  We  are  ashore,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  My  God,"  cried  John  with  a  lo  >k  of  anguish   to- 


124 

wards  Regina,  "let  us  wake  the  people" — and  he 
would  have  raised  a  shout  of  alarm,  but  that  the  Cap- 
tain clapped  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  said  in  a 
whisper : 

"  Not  a  word  for  your  life.  There  is  no  danger. 
Keep  your  head,  John,  and  get  Miss  DeLaunay  ready 
to  go  ashore.  I'll  'tend  to  the  others." 

His  coolness  and  decision  were  magnificent  to 
Regina,  and  his  strong  will  brought  Winthrop  to  him- 
f.elf  at  once  The  third  instant  found  Hugh  in  the 
engine-room  whence  the  engineer  had  fled;  the 
fourth  saw  him  at  the  furnace  and  the  tramp  beside 
him.  The  entire  watch  had  followed  the  engineer  in 
a  cowardly  fTght  to  shore. 

Fortunately  the  fires  were  undisturbed,  and  a  few 
minute's  work  with  the  aid  of  the  tramp  shut  off 
danger  from  them.  Leaving  the  useful  fellow  on 
guard  he  returned  to  the  deck.  The  pilot's  attend- 
ant was  standing  with  Winthrop  and  Regina. 

"  Help  these  two  ashore,"  said  the  Captain,  '•  and 
then  come  back  to  look  after  t^e  rest.  You  can  step 
from  the  deck  to  the  rocks  I  think." 

"  Easily,"  said  the  pale  attendant.  "  She  is  stuck 
fast  on  a  ledge." 

u  My  father,"  said  Regina. 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  fear,"  Hugh  said  with  a 
smile,  she  had  shown  such  a  calm  courage.  "  I  shall 
bring  him  to  you  without  disturbing  his  nerves." 

When  they  had  gone  he  proceeded  to  wake  his 
officers  and  instruct  them.  Very  quietly  the  pas- 
sengers were  aroused,  and  informed  that  the  journey 
had  come  to  an  end.  Very  sourly  and  leisurely  they 
dressed  and  straggled  into  the  salon,  where  the  officers 


"5 

were  waiting  ;  they  were  led  quietly  to  the  deck  and 
handed  ashore  over  the  regular  gangplank,  too  mysti- 
fied by  the  darkness,  broken  sleep,  and  sour  tempers 
to  understand  the  position.  The  rocky  slope,  pine 
and  spruce  trees  ill  around,  and  the  broken  bow  of 
the  steamer  in  a  heap  on  the  shore  explained  that 
this  was  not  the  dock  at  Saranac.  Surprised  questions 
were  cut  short  by  a  speech  from  the  captain,  a  brief 
description  of  the  accident,  and  a  statement  that  a 
messenger  had  been  sent  for  a  rescue  steamer;  while 
they  waited  a  small  cabin  near  by  was  at  the  disposal 
of  the  women,  the  men  to  shift  as  they  best  could.  Un- 
der the  lead  of  the  first  officer  the  confused  travellers 
made  through  the  pine  gro/e  to  the  cabin.  It  was 
the  shabby  hut  of  a  cross  fisherman,  whose  absence 
for  twelve  hours  had  been  bought  by  the  captain. 
The  women  took  possession  cheerfully,  the  men  went 
off  to  inspect  the  steamer,  the  tramp  and  the  first 
officer  were  detailed  to  guard  the  hut.  Regina  was 
pleased  to  see  that  her  tramp  bore  a  close  inspection 
well.  His  thin,  feverish  face  had  marks  of  sorrow  as 
well  as  dissipation.  It  was  a  good  face  in  the  main, 
and  his  eyes  were  pathetic.  He  arranged  the  cabin 
in  a  handy  manner,  seeming  to  know  wh  re  necessary 
things  should  be  in  a  bachelor  s  hut ;  made  a  fire  on 
the  wide  hearth,  brought  crockery,  tinware  and  eat- 
ables from  the  wrecked  steamer,  cooked  the  coffee, 
eggs  and  toast,  and  served  a  neat  and  refreshing  me •<  I 
to  eight  or  ten  nervous  women.  His  rags  were  gone. 
Some  ^ne  had  given  him  enough  clothing  to  take 
a<vay  t^e  tramp  appearance. 

Winthrop  brought   Regina  a  report  of  the   situa- 
tion after   the   meal  was   over.     The  great  steamer 


126 

was  firmly  stuck  in  its  upright  position,  but  for 
ever  useless,  and  Hugh  was  actually  shedding 
tears  over  it.  The  men  had  returned  it 
their  staterooms  to  sleep  the  night  out.  Prob- 
ably by  noon  the  next  day  a  steamer  would  arrive 
from  Burlington  to  take  them  home.  Revived 
by  hot  coffee  and  toast,  the  women  chattered  their 
grief,  joy,  wonder  in  one  breath  to  John,  bat  Re- 
gina  said  nothing.  There  was  something  strange 
about  her,  Winthrop's  loving  eyes  noticed  ;  something 
inexplicable  and  beautiful.  He  did  not  like  it  and 
felt  worried.  The  tramp  and  the  first  officer  sug- 
gested that  a  little  sleep  would  save  the  ladies  from 
headaches  that  day  and  give  them  an  appetite  for 
breakfast ;  at  the  bare  mention  of  it  they  banished 
the  men  and  went  to  bed  on  the  floor  with  elaborate 
preparations.  But  Regina  could  not  sleep,  and  took 
the  one  easy  chair  into  the  small  porch  over  the  door- 
way, where  the  three  men  sat  at  her  feet  and  talked 
in  murmurs  of  the  shipwreck  and  the  luck  of  the 
escaped  passengers.  Two  men  had  disappeared,  the 
engineer  and  the  unfortunate  pilot,  who  were  proba- 
bly wandering  in  shame  and  sorrow  through  the  wil- 
derness. Regina  1'stened,  watching  the  east 
shore  where  the  first  dawn  would  appear,  and 
Winthrop  talked  with  his  eyes  fastened  on  her 
face,  studying  that  new  strange  expression  which 
so  puzzled  him.  The  ship's  lantern  gave  but 
a  feeble  light,  and  sometimes  her  head 
was  bowed ;  yet  he  knew  the  expression  would  be 
there  when  her  face  came  out  of  the  shadow  again. 
Presently  she  fell  asleep  so  quietly  that  he  alone  no- 
ticed. He  was  sitting  at  her  feet,  and  rose  to  a  stand- 


127 

ing  position  as  if  for  greater  ease.  It  was  to  watch 
her  more  closely.  The  men  talked,  Regina  slept,  and 
the  slow  minutes  crept  on.  Her  lips  moved  once,  a 
smile  parted  them,  and  a  single  word  was  breathed 
into  his  ear. 

"Hugh!" 

Then  there  was  quiet  again,  aud  the  talk  of  the 
two  men  continued  ;  but  the  utterance  of  that  name, 
the  tenderness  of  the  tone,  had  hurt  him  like  a 
mortal  wound.  No  matter  what  he  thought, 
what  conclusions  he  reached,  they  are  easily  compre- 
hended; a  sudden  temptation  seized  him  and  he 
walked  away  to  the  lake  shore,  which  was  here  a 
precipice,  and  debated  if  he  would  throw  himself 
headlong  into  the  water,  or  hand  to  Regina  the  fatal 
letter  lying  against  his  heart.  To  die  was  nothing ; 
to  live  dishonored  was  dreadful.  He  could  drown 
himself ;  could  he  betray  his  friend  ?  It  took  fifteen 
minutes  to  settle  this  practical  question  in  favcr  of  his 
own  life.  There  was  nothing  morbid  in  the  reason- 
ing which  led  to  his  decision,  nothing  dramatic. 
Winthrop's  honor  was  most  sensitive ;  to  do  a  mean 
thing  seemed  for  him  impossible ;  to  betray  his  bosom 
friend,  to  make  him  appear  despicable  in  Regina's 
eyes  was  an  alternative  with  death.  Death  was  an 
easy  thing,  while  this  treachery  was  torture.  Yet  he 
decided  to  live  a  traitor  to  his  friend  in  the  hope  of 
one  day  winning  this  incomparable  girl ;  and  it  took 
him  but  fifteen  unpleasant  minutes,  to  wound  to  death 
the  one  virtue  in  which  he  took  pride. 

It  was  gray  dawn  when  Regina  awoke,  and  a  flush 
of  light  was  threatening  the  East.  The  tramp  sat 
near  tranquilly  smoking  a  cigar.  There  was  no  sound 


128 

in  the  wilderness.  When  the  man  saw  her  moving  he 
;  tood  up  respectfully  with  a  few  old  letters  in  his 
hand,  and  held  them  out  to  her. 

"  I  think  some  of  the  gentlemen  lost  'em,"  he  said. 
"If  you  could  look 'em  over,  and  give  'em  to  the 
captain.  It  ain't  safe  for  me  to  have  'em." 

She  took  them  listlessly,  and  examined  them  with 
her  thoughts  elsewhere.  There  were  no  envelopes  to 
the  letters.  She  opened  the  first  and  read  "  Dear 
John,"  let  her  eye  run  down  the  page  to  the  signature, 
and  caught  the  words  "  prison,"  "  DeLaunay,"  "jail," 
stopped  in  a  fright,  and  read  the  paragraph,  looked 
at  the  date  and  the  signature,  and  then  handed  them 
to  the  tramp. 

"  Give  them  te  the  Captain  with  my  compliments,'' 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  or  to  Mr.  Winthrop.  I 
think  they  belong  to  him." 

Oh,  what  a  catastrophe  that  letter  had  wrought  in 
her  mind,  and  what  a  pain  it  sent  through  her  heart ! 
But  as  she  said  to  herself  very  sensibly  an  instant 
after,  it  could  not  have  happened  otherwise.  He  was 
of  low  extraction,  he  was  vulgar,  and,  therefore,  he 
could  break  a  solemn  promise,  lie  with  ease,  play  the 
hypocrite,  and  scheme  to  marry  her  like  any  selfish 
fellow.  His  tears,  generosity,  bravery,  were  animal 
things ;  everyone  knows  that  a  dog  can  be  faithful  to 
his  master  even  to  death,  and  yet  rob  another  cur  of 
a  cheap  bone.  Fortunately  she  had  not  committed 
herself.  She  had  come  near  to  making  a  gieat  mis- 
take, but  her  own  caution  had  been  strong  enough  to 
save  her.  It  was  delightful  to  think  of.  She  d'd  not 
owe  her  salvation  to  anyone  but  herself.  Therefore 
she  stood  up  very  proudly,  and  thanked  her  stars  that 


129 

the  DeLaunay  pride  was  safe.  The  Captain  and 
Winthrop  with  her  father  came  up  to  invite  the  women 
to  a  breakfast  on  the  UVe  shore.  Mr.  DeLaunay  was 
in  perfect  toilet,  the  young  men  looked  worn,  and  the 
Captain's  face  utterly  sad.  Winthrop  seemed  cheerful, 
and  h's  shrewd  glance  detected  at  once  the  very  or 
dinary,  not  to  say  disappointed  exp'ession  of  Regina's 
calm  countenance.  The  curious  exaltation  of  the 
nig'-'t  previous  was  gone,  and  she  glanced  at  Hugh  as 
one  would  glance  at  a  wall.  There  was  no  change  in 
her  polite  manner,  except  a  slight  increase  of  her 
natural  reserve,  and  disposition  to  silence.  The  Cap- 
tain certainly  did  not  notice  it,  and  had  she  become 
an  idiot  at  that  particular  moment  would  scarcely 
have  given  it  a  thought  in  the  disaster  that  had  be- 
fallen his  beautiful  ship.  The  few  hours  spent  in 
waiting  for  rescuers  calmed  the  disturbed  spirits  of  the 
few  interested  in  the  episode  of  the  letter,  and  when 
they  finally  sailed  away  to  Saranac,  Regina  and  Win- 
throp had  the  separate  conviction  that  all's  well  that 
ends  well,  and  that  matters  were  very  msch  as  they 
had  been  before  Captain  LaRorhe's  troublesome  son 
stirred  calm  but  muddy  waters. 

CHAPTER  XV. 


Mr.  Tuttle  one  day  entered  Winthrop's  office  to 
engage  the  lawyer's  services  for  a  friend.  It  was  the 
most  dignified  event  of  his  existence,  this  engaging  a 
liwyer,  and  he  wished  the  whole  world  to  know  it  ; 
but  even  all  Saranac  could  not  be  got  together  in 
midsummer  long  enough  to  feel  interested  in  the  inci- 
dent. Winthrop  alone  was  to  be  impressed  with  Mr. 


I30 

f 

Tattle's  new  sense  of  personal  dignity  on  this  occa- 
sion. He  droned  his  opinions  into  John's  ears  until 
the  lawyer  fancied  him  a  lazy  bee  relishing  the  task 
of  boring  a  lawyer  in  his  private  office. 

"  I'm  a  no  account  feller,"  said  Sol,  "  tho'  I  hev 
taken  the  pledge  from  the  priest,  an'  I  hev  held  on  to 
a  bank  book.  Sometimes  it's  the  no  account  fellers 
that  gits  choosed  for  mighty  partikler  an'  important 
persitions.  I  know  I'm  no  account,  but  I  know  I  am 
also  choosed  by  a  certain  pusson  to  git  your  advice 
an'  counsel,  by  law  an'  by  court,  in  the  best  way  them 
things  air  fixed  up  by  the  hull  o'  New  York  state.  It's 
a  ticklish  thing,  an'  money's  got  to  be  put  into  it,  an' 
money's  to  come  out  of  it  too ;  but  Sol  Tuttle  per- 
vides  the  money,  an'  once  in  he  stays  in  till  the  last 
dollar  is  jingled,  an'  you  kin  put  him  down  for  a  slab- 
sided,  holler  chested,  round-shouldered — " 

"  Hold  on,  Sol,"  cried  the  lawyer,  waking  up  from 
his  day  dream.  "Let  us  know  what  you're  after  on 
the  spot,  and  stop  spouting.  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  What  do  I  want  ?  Thet's  for  you  to  tell,  Mr. 
Lawyer.  We  don't  know  what  we  want,  we  don't. 
We  want  our  rights  first  off,  an'  as  they've  been  tuck 
away  nigh  onto  fifteen  year,  they  must  be  pretty  well 
used  up  I  reckon.  Then  we  want  their  full  value,  an' 
our  good  name,  which  is  our  reputation,  back,  an' 
enough  spot  cash  to  make  us  forgive  an'  forgit  forever. 
But  I'm  sartin  there's  more  that  we  want,  on'y  it  takes 
a  lawyer  feller  to  find  it  out." 

Winthrop  kept  a  discreet  silence. 

"  Mr.  Stone  sent  me  to  ye  askin'  if  you  would  be 
so  kind  as  to  take  up  a  job  o'  that  sort  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  John,   "  no  trouble — delighted." 


"  That's  what  I  told  'im.  You  never  met  Mr. 
Stone  ?" 

"  No,"  said  John,  "  I  hope  to  see  him  soon." 

"  Wai,  that  depends  on  your  advice  an'  your  abil- 
ity. If  you  say  so,  he'll  come  over  to-morrer  an'  take 
the  town  by  surprise.  It'll  be  a  big  surprise,  too. 
Mr.  Stone  is  a  public  character,  an'  we  used  to  know 
him  by  his  right  name,  Amede'e  LaRoche." 

"Ah!"  said  John  then,  and  a  fine  smile  lighted  up 
his  face.  His  opportunity  had  come. 

"I  tole  'im,"  continued  Sol,  "that  the  best  an'  onli- 
est  way  to  handle  this  hull  business  was  to  put  it  in 
your  hands.  I  saw  the  scrabblin'  that  ol'  cuss  Tim 
Grady  an'  Cap'n  Sullivan  had  the  last  time.  An' 
what  did  it  amount  to?  Nothin'.  New,  sez  I,  this 
time  that'll  be  no  scrabblin'.  We'll  hev  the  best  law- 
yer in  town,  an'  we'll  spend  money  on  him,  sez  I." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Stone  stopping  ?'' 

"  With  me  an'  Sairey  over  on  the  Point.  You 
never  see  sech  a  poor  washed  out  critter  as  he's  got 
to  be,  that  was  the  mos'  proper  boy  in  Saranac  onct. 
But  hard  times  an'  drink  an'  despa'r, — Lor'  I  whar 
won't  they  land  a  man  !  I  lay  the  hull  blame  onto  De- 
Launay.  He  ought  to  smart  for  it,  an'  he  will,  by  gum." 

"  What  does  Mr.  Stone  want  ?" 

"  He  wants  to  come  home  here  to  his  folks  without 
gittin'  arrested,  for  things  he  never  done.  He  wants 
his  good  name,  which  is  his  reputation,  back.  He 
wants  to  be  compensified  for  all  he  stood  out  in  Texas, 
consortin'  with  wild  beasts  an'  wild  men.  He  wants 
to  be  let  alone.  Above  all  he  wants  to  git  squar' 
with  DeLaunay,  the  double-dyed  villyan  that  tuck 
three  thousand  dollars  an'  laid  it  on  him.  Them's 


132 

the  things  he  wants,  an'  here's  the  money  to  back  you 
up  in  gittin'  'em  " 

And  Sol  with  dignity  placed  one  hundred  dollars 
on  the  desk  before  the  lawyer. 

"  Mr.  Stone  is  not  feeling  well  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Sol,  "  he  aint.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
Con  hed  him,  he  coughs  so ;  an'  he  s  mighty  thin. 
His  own  mother  wouldn't  know  him.  But  he's  got 
his  dander  up,  an'  his  grit  is  suthin'  fearful  to  see,  an' 
he  talks  like, — wal,  I  swow,  thar  aint  no  preacher  I 
ever  heerd  could  hold  a  taller  candle  to  him  when  he 
gits  started." 

"  Does  he  drink  ? ' 

"  Haint  touched  a  drop  sence  spring ;  swars  he 
won't  never  put  a  drop  in  his  mouth  till  he's  got  his 
rights.  He  sez  to  me,  Sol,  if  ever  you  see  me  lookin' 
weak  at  whisky,  or  reachin'  for  it,  or  about  to  take  a 
nip,  jump  on  me.  If  I  once  go  on  a  racket  I'd  clean 
out  all  Saranac.  No  Eastern  man  knows,  sez  he, 
what  a  commotion  and  a  excitement  a  Texas  steer 
can  raise  when  he  gits  started.  Jump  on  me,  sez  he, 
an'  I'll  be  thankful.  An'  I'll  do  it,  sez  I,  with  Sairey's 
help,  an'  mebbe  he  won't  feel  so  thankful  when  I'm 
through  with  him." 

"  Then  Mr.  Stone  leaves  his  case  with  me." 

"  That's  what's  the  matter." 

"  And  he  is  willing  to  be  guided  by  my  advice.' 

"  Iv'e  come  over  to  get  it  and  fetch  it  back." 

"  Then  tell  him  to  stay  with  you  until  I  call  on  him. 
Let  him  be  known  as  Mr  Stone.  Let  him  keep  his 
mouth  shut,  and  recognize  no  one.  I  shall  go  to  see 
him  this  evening  perhaps,  or  to-morrow  early,  and 
hear  his  story,  and  arrange  for  whatever  is  best." 


"  That's  business,"  said  Sol,  and  he  would  have 
continued  to  drone  another  hour  but  that  the  lawyer 
hurried  him  into  the  street  on  some  pretence. 

He  returned  him  his  money  saying  that  the  re- 
tainer could  be  paid  after  Mr.  Stone  and  he  had  de- 
termined what  to  do  and  how  *o  do  it. 

S«l  went  off  to  his  boat,  and  John  Winthrop  began 
to  study  the  unexpected  incident  which  promised  to 
bring  him  into  pleasant  and  hopeful  relations  with 
Regina  DeLaunay.  Amede"e  LaRoche  had  returned 
to  give  trouble,  as  his  father  had  given  trouble  on  his 
acrount.  Winthrop  had  recently  added  to  his  knowl- 
edge of  this  matter.  He  knew  that  money  had  been 
stolen  years  ago,  and  DeLaunay  had  stolen  it  while 
young  LaRoche  bore  the  odium  and  the  punishment. 
Captain  Sullivan  had  saved  the  DeLaunays  from  ex- 
posure when  the  victim's  father  had  threatened  them. 
This  time  the  victim  himself  was  at  their  doors.  Com- 
pelled to  pay  again,  there  was  no  saying  where  these 
payments  would  cease  with  a  desperado  from  Texas, 
who  could  never  give  up  so  profitable  a  blackmail. 
How  would  Regina  accept  his  interference  in  her  be- 
half? Her  pride  might  not  bear  the  thought  of 
his  share  in  a  disgraceful  secret.  To  be  twice  ex- 
posed, and  each  time  before  the  men  who  thought 
most  highly  of  her  was  bitter  indeed.  But  he  thought 
nothing  of  the  risk  so  glad  was  he  of  his  opportunity, 
so  confident  that  it  meant  entire  success  for  him. 
Hugh  had  blundered  in  his  management  of  LaRoche. 
The  affair  should  have  been  hushed  up  at  once  a.n'\ 
foiever.  Poor  business  it  must  have  been  not  to  have 
killed  the  snake  at  the  first  blow.  His  claim  to  Re- 
gina's  gratitude  would  be  that  in  a  short  week  her 


134 

danger,  root  and  branch  and  seed,  would  be  utterly 
destroyed  at  his  hands.  He  went  to  see  her  within 
the  hour,  and  had  difficulty  to  conceal  his  joy  under 
the  mask  of  a  business  manner. 

She  always  received  him  kindly  and  thought  well  of 
him.  His  air  was  distinguished,  his  refinement  ad- 
mirable, and  he  belonged  to  her  set.  That  his  letter 
had  smashed  her  idol  did  not  connect  him  in  her 
mind  with  that  painful  fact.  It  had  been  very  pain- 
ful! She  was  grateful  for  tbe  discovery  of  Hugh's 
true  character  as  a  person  might  be  to  the  surgeon 
who  had  cut  his  leg  cff  successfully  ;  but  the  shock, 
the  depression,  the  long  convalescence  were  memo- 
ries of  years.  She  took  consolation  from  remember- 
ing how  much  worse  it  might  have  been. 

"A  man  has  just  arrived  in  this  vicinity,"  Wiathrop 
said  directly,  "  who  will  interest  you  His  name  is 
Amed£e  LaRoche.  He  is  a  drunkard  ar  d  a  wretch 
from  Texas,  where  he  led  a  life  of  debauchery,  and 
now  comes  East  to  levy  blackmail  on  your  family 
He  was  driven  out  of  here  fifteen  years  ago  for  com 
mon  stealing,  and  had  a  bad  name  before  he  went. 
Through  some  gossip  I  learned  the  main  facts  about 
him.  He  is  hiding  in  this  vicinity.  A  friend  of  his 
came  to  me  to  day  to  place  his  case  in  my  hands. 
He  wants  money  from  your  family,  and  permission  to 
to  come  back  to  Saranac  and  live  in  dissipation  until 
he  dies.  I  know  that  you  have  already  given  his 
father  money  to  keep  him  quiet,  and  a  foolish  thing  it 
was  to  do.  I  know  he  has  no  more  claim  on  you 
than  I  have.  It  was  a  great  mistake  to  admit  his 
father's  claim." 

He  talked  in  this  strain  for  five  minutes,  merely  to 


'35 

give  her  time  to  recover  from  the  shock  of  hearing 
AmedeVs  name.  She  grew  pale  for  a  moment, 
flashed,  and  was  calm  again.  Before  he  had  done 
talking  she  was  ready  to  answer  him. 

"  You  are  not  acquainted  with  all  the  circumstan- 
ces,'  she  said.  "  The  affair  was  kept  very  quiet." 

"  I  know  that  this  wretch  now  hopes  to  get  some 
money  out  of  you,  if  you  will  be  so  weak  as  to  give  it 
to  him.'" 

"  I  will  speak  to  my  father,"  she  answered.  "  It 
is  very  good  of  you  to  give  me  notice  of  this  matter. 
My  father  will  settle  everything." 

"As  he  did  before  by  giving  money,"  he  said, 
smiling,  to  take  the  harshness  from  his  words.  "  That 
will  never  do.  Why  not  take  the  whole  matter  into 
your  own  hands,  and  bring  it  to  an  end  without  dis- 
turbing your  father." 

"  If  I  could,"  she  began,  and  stopped  with  tears 
forcing  themselves  into  her  eyes.  The  outlook  was 
so  dreary! 

"  There  is  no  question  of  your  success,"  he  said. 
"  That  is  why  I  come  to  you.  Your  father  need 
know  nothing.  The  means  are  easy  and  at  your 
hand." 

"  What  must  I  do  ?     What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  Give  me  permission  to  do  all,  and  do  you  ratify 
my  actions.  The  plan  is  very  simple.  His  father  has 
been  well  paid,  and  may  be  made  to  understand  that 
he  must  keep  his  son  quiet  if  he  wishes  to  keep  the 
money." 

She  reflected  a  few  minutes,  and  the  thought  of  the 
wretched  man's  mother,  of  her  father's  guilt  made  her 
sad. 


"  I  would  like,"  she  said,  "  to  have  this  man  al- 
lowed to  stay  in  Saranac  with  his  mother.  He  has 
been  so  long  away  from  her." 

u  That  can  be  managed  if  he  is  willing  and  his 
mother  wants  him." 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  and  he  said, 

"  These  people  are  not  sentimental.  LaRoche  is  a 
rover,  and  will  be  one  until  he  dies  ;  his  habits  can't 
be  the  nicest  now,  and  may  soon  disgust  his  mother. 
After  they  have  lived  in  the  same  house  together  a  few 
weeks  or  months  she  may  get  tired  of  him,  and  he  get 
tired  of  civilized  routine.  You  are  not  acquainted 
with  these  people.  They  are  very  practical.  Amedee's 
lather  took  your  money,  and  never  bothered  his  head 
about  his  son  since." 

"  Yes,  they  must  be  practical,"  said  Regina 

"  Do  you  give  me  permission  then  to  represent  you 
in  this  matter  ?  " 

'•  1  am  so  grateful,"  she  answered,  "  but  first,  I  was 
tHnkinej — ihough  you  may  call  it  sentimental, — have 
you  s^en  this  man  from  Texas  ?  " 

"  No.     I  may  visit  him  to-night." 

•*  Then  take  me  with  you,  Mr.  Winthrop.  I  would 
feel  easier  after  seeing  him.  I  would  let  you  do  as 
you  pleased  afterwards.  You  men  of  business  are  so 
hard  w  ti  one  another.  Though  I  trust  you.  Ysf  I 
would  like  to  see  him,  and  know  that  he  was  as  care- 
less as  you  think." 

"  I  fear  it  would  make  him  bolder  in  his  demands 
if  he  received  a  visit  from  you.  It  would  give  him 
importance.  You  can  imagine  what  he  must  be  after 
fifteen  years  in  the  wild  West,  consorting  with  despera' 
does." 


137 

"  I  can  imagine,"  she  said  humbly  enough,  for  this 
human  wreck  was  of  her  father's  making. 

"  Take  a  boatman's  son,  fond  of  drink  and  gaming, 
and  put  him  in  a  school  of  sin  on  the  frontier,  for 
fifteen  years.  This  man  is  not  merely  a  desperado, 
he  is  a  drunkard.  He  became  even  in  the  West  the 
miserable  hanger  on  of  barrooms,  too  contemptible 
for  the  men  who  had  helped  to  degrade  him.  His 
personal  habits,  his  manners,  his  language,  his  very 
thoughts  must  be  something  vile.  One  might  find  in 
tha  dens  at  Whitehall  something  like  this  wretched 
blackmailer.  Little  use  to  shed  tears  over  him." 

Her  tears  fell  like  rain.  Every  word  of  his  de- 
scription went  to  her  heart. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  can  he  have  come  to  that  ?  Can 
any  poor  soul  sink  so  low  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  John  cheerfully.  "  The  only 
consolation  being  that  its  their  own  wish.  This  fellow 
began  very  low,  you  understand,  a  common  boatman's 
ton,  a  poor  Canadian  of  low  birth  and  mean  training. 
Manv  a  man  goes  as  low  at  times.  It's  painful,  but 
it  seems  unavoidable.  It  will  be  best  for  yau  to  keep 
away  from  him." 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  drawn  a  true  picture  of 
this  LaRoche  ?'' 

"Hardly  true  enough,"  he  answered.  "The  truth 
wo  did  be  very  repulsive." 

"  Then  I  must  surely  go  to  see  him,"  was  her  reply. 
"  When  I  have  seen  him,  I  can  be  satisfied,  and  I  will 
accept  your  kind  offer  to  deal  with  him  alone." 

"  Very  well,''  he  said,  too  astonished  to  protest. 
His  warm  description  had  only  strengthened  her  de- 
sire to  see  a  wretch  so  degraded.  A  woman's  whim, 


'3* 

he  thought  it.  What  matter!  He  had  succeeded, 
and  her  whims  were  trifles.  So  nicely  had  he  spoken 
that  she  believed  in  his  implied  ignorance  of  her 
father's  guilt.  She  made  no  effort  to  set  him  right, 
and  was  relieved  at  his  way  of  treating  the  facts,  since 
it  saved  her  from  saying  outright  that  her  father  made 
confession  of  his  guilt,  and  that  Amede"e  was  an  inno- 
cent and  wronged  man.  She  was  pleased  too  at  the 
kindly  way  he  protected  the  good  name  of  his  friend, 
Captain  Sullivan ;  not  a  word  of  that  shameful  letter 
which  had  given  her  so  much  pain.  What  sensibility ! 
What  honor !  And  he  was  bound  by  no  word,  only 
by  his  faith  to  his  friend  ! 

They  went  together  after  early  tea  to  visit  the 
Point,  where  Tuttle  had  his  modest  and  peculiar 
home.  The  lake  was  very  placid  in  the  sunset,  and 
detted  with  fishing-boats  creeping  homeward  in  a 
breeze  too  weak  to  support  a  cobweb.  But  they  who 
fish  for  pleasure  are  poor  oarsmen,  and  will  endure  all 
labors  but  that  of  rowing!  The  coachman  of  the 
DeLaunay  establishment  handled  the  oars,  and  in 
consequence  their  conversation  was  formal  until  they 
reached  the  miniature  dock  which  Sol  Tuttle  had 
built  on  the  water  front.  The  fisherman  came  down 
the  pathway  to  conduct  them  to  the  door. 

"  We  want  to  see  Mr.  Stone,"  said  John,  "  if  he  will 
be  so  kind  as  to  spare  us  the  time." 

"  Yes,  walk  right  in,"  Sol  answered,  very  nervous 
at  sight  of  Regina.  "  Tain't  no  place  to  take  com- 
pany, but  I  s'posen  business  is  business,  in  my  yard 
as  well  as  in  a  circus  tent.  Mr.  Stone  is  jes1  now  per- 
ambulatin'  around  the  Point  with  Sairey,  but  I  reckon 
one  minute  '11  fetch  him  to  anchor. 


He  hurried  out  to  find  the  man,  and  left  them  to 
the  comforts  of  Mrs.  Tuttle's  kitchen.  Regina  was 
almost  terrified  at  the  meeting  with  the  wretch  her 
father  had  brought  to  ruin.  His  rags,  his  sins,  his 
broken  health  seemed  to  be  more  her  father's  than 
his  who  suffered  them.  She  went  over  the  details  of 
the  picture  Winthrop  had  drawn  for  her  and  felt  like 
weeping.  The  lawyer  cheered  her  more  by  his  man- 
ner than  his  words.  With  him  the  case  was  already 
settled ;  a  poor  wretch  from  the  frontier,  desperate 
and  cowardly,  attempting  to  blackmail  wealthy  people 
was  a  trifling  character.  He  waited  impatiently  for 
the  drunken  reprobate  who  had  almost  spoiled  the 
speech  of  his  godfather. 

Amedee  came  in  alone  after  a  few  minutes,  intro- 
duced by  a  distant  shout  from  Sol  that  Mr.  Stone  was 
at  hand.  Regina  and  her  lawyer  were  too  surprised 
at  sight  of  him  to  say  anything  at  once ;  simply  be- 
cause he  was  a  taU,  well  dressed  man,  pale  and  worn, 
with  piercing  black  eyes.  His  movements  were  easy, 
and  his  look  confident.  There  was  little  trace  of  sin- 
ner and  tramp  about  him.  Regina  felt  relieved,  and 
the  lawyer  annoyed. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Stone,"  said  Amede'e. 

"  This  lady  is  Miss  DeLaunay,"  said  the  lawyer  in 
return.  "  I  acquainted  her  with  your  arrival,  with  a 
view  to — a  -  this  interview,  that  before  going  to  law 
you  might  try  to  arrange  matters.  It  is  often  more 
profitable  to  both  parties  Miss  DeLaunay  has  called 
from  a  friendly  motive,  and  without  the  knowledge  of 
her  father.  Knowing  this  yon  can  speak  freely  before 
her. 

"I  am  more  than  grateful,"  said  Amede'e,  with  a 


140 

bow  to  Regina.  "  I  have  come  back  home  to  get  a 
little  justice :  not  all,  you  see,  for  I  am  in  weak  health 
and  I  do  not  look  to  getting  entirely  well.  But  if  my 
good  name  were  restored,  and  the  few  years  that  re- 
main to  me  were  secured  against  want,  I  would  not 
care  for  more.  Your  father  treated  me  cruelly,  Miss 
DeLaunay,  and  yet  I  will  say  no  more  than  this.  You 
can  see  that  I  have  a  right  to  some  compensation  for 
the  shame  and  suffering  of  fifteen  years  " 

"You  put  it  very  mildly,"  said  the  lawyer.  "I 
think  Miss  DeLaunay  understands  the  matter  very 
well.  You  must  remember,  though,  that  her  desire  is 
to  spare  her  father  as  much  pain  as  possible.  He 
would  probably  resist  your  demands,  and  fight  them. 
Her  idea  is  a  compromise,  which  would  suit  both 
parties." 

For  her  life  Regina  could  rot  have  opened  her 
mouth  to  suggest  money  or  other  rompromise  to  the 
victim  of  her  father's  cruelty. 

"  I  am  not  in  a  state  to  care  for  compromise,''  said 
Amede"e.  "  A  good  name  is  worth  more  to  me  now 
than  a  fortune.  I  don't  care  how  it  is  arranged,  but 
I  cannot  accept  anything  that  leaves  me  a  thief.  I 
have  suffered  everything  that  a  fool  can  bring  on  him- 
self— you  ran  guess  what  life  is  in  Texas  -what  was  it 
all  to  the  bad  name  I  carried  ?  I  cannot  forget  that 
I  am  known  as  a  thief  in  my  own  town.  Even  my 
parents  believe  I  took  that  money.  Why,  I  have 
almost  believed  it  myself.  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  die  a  ruffian  in  Texas,  without  priest  or  Church, 
killed  by  drink,  a  death  good  enough  for  a  thief.  Bat 
I  was  stung  into  something  like  decent  shame  when 
men  told  me  how  I  had  insulted  my  godfather,  and 


how  he  had  looked  upon  me  in  my  drunken  sleep. 
That  nerved  me  to  come  East  and  make  a  fight  for 
justice,  for  the  only  thing  that  is  of  use  to  me  now,  a 
good  name.  I  forgive  DeLaunay  all  the  rest,  but  my 
name  he  must  give  back.  There  can  be  no  compro- 
mise on  that.  I  beg  pardon  if  I  speak  too  harshly, 
Miss  DeLaunay.  But  you  understand  me.  You  can 
feel  what  it  must  be  to  a  man  so  poor  and  mean  as  I, 
to  be  ashamed  of  his  name,  and  afraid  to  go  live  with 
his  own." 

"  I  do  understand,"  she  said  humbly,  and  after  that 
she  said  no  more.  The  lawyer  made  a  few  wide  sug- 
gestions, and  then  they  went  away  speedily.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  conversation  with  a  pro- 
fessional gambler,  cool,  reckless,  determined,  who  had 
become  suddenly  insane  on  the  matter  of  reputation. 
That  was  the  way  John  Winthrop  expressed  it  on 
their  way  home,  but  Regina  felt  that  the  first  en- 
counter was  to  the  desperado's  advantage. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A    TEXAS    STEER. 

Sol  Tuttle  appeared  the  next  morning  to  tell  the 
lawyer  that  Amede'e  would  not  need  his  services. 

"  The  reason  bein',''  said  Sol  frankly,  "that  Mr.  Stone 
don't  like  wimmin  folks  a  foolin'  around  his  lawsuits. 
Tain't  safe,  nohow,  and  I'm  mortified  an'  nonplushed 
to  think  any  lawyer  feller  that  I  named  an1  recker- 
mended  to  a  friend  of  mine  should  ha'  done  it  so  reck- 
less like.  Moreover  an'  besides  the  pertickler  woming 
in  this  case  bein'  the  very  party  my  friend  is  lawsuit- 
ing.  It  looks  queer,  Mr.  Winthrop,  an  I'm  not  afraid 
to  say  so." 


142 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  John  pleasantly.  "  Tt  was  a 
very  good  thing  for  Mr.  Stone  that  I  saw  Miss  De 
Launay  without  waiting  for  her  father.  She  is  willing 
that  your  friend  shall  return  to  his  mother,  and  gives 
her  word  that  no  proceedings  will  be  taken  against 
him.  If  he  had  waited  until  Mr.  DeLaunay  was  ready 
to  welcome  him  to  Saranac,  your  board  bill  would 
be  large,  Sol,  or  Dannemora  would  be  opened 
for  him." 

"  I  swow,"  said  astonished  Tuttle.  "  Wai,  that  was 
a  clever  move  after  all !  Praps  I'd  better  hev  another 
chat  with  Mr.  Stone  afore  declinin'  yer  services." 

"  No,  no ;  t  never  took  the  case,  and  I  could  not 
think  of  taking  it  now.  Mr.  Stone  must  get  another 
lawyer.  No  charge  for  what  I  did  for  him.  The  man 
will  need  all  the  money  he  can  get  before  he's  done 
with  a  fighter  like  DeLaunay,  unless  the  young  lady 
does  something  for  him." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Sol,  "  but  he  don't  ask  odds  o'  no 
one;  an'  I  reckon  he  kin  fight  with  the  best  ov  'em.  I'm 
obliged  to  you,  Winthrop,  as  far  as  ye  went,  an'  I  will 
say  Amed^e  hez  made  a  mistake  in  givin'  up  yer  ser- 
vices." 

The  Texan  had  icsigned  himself  to  a  long  stay  on 
the  Point,  and  the  news  of  his  liberation  was  a  sur- 
prise to  him  Within  an  hour  he  was  ready  to  take 
advantage  of  his  good  fortune.  The  gentleman  who 
stepped  into  the  boat  with  Sol  was  not  only  respecta- 
ble, but  distinguished  in  appearance.  A  light  colored 
costume  filled  out  his  wasted  form,  his  linen  was  spot- 
less, his  gloves  neat;  the  moustache  and  imperial,  the 
fever  color  in  his  eyes  and  cheeks  helped  to  conceal 
the  ravages  of  dissipation  and  disease.  As  the  shore 


143 

he  had  not  touched  in  fifteen  years  sounded  under 
the  boat's  keel,  and  he  stepped  on  it  with  a  proud 
firm  foot  the  emotions  of  his  heart  nearly  overcame 
him. 

He  recognized  almost  weeping  the  familiar  places 
he  had  once  resigned  all  hope  of  seeing.  How  he 
blessed  the  luck,  the  spirit  that  had  prompted  him  to 
take  destiny  in  his  own  hands !  The  pleasure  of  this 
return  was  worth  a  score  of  years  on  the  frontier.  Old 
Winthrop  saw  him  land,  and  after  the  fashion  of 
villagers  stood  inquiring  of  his  memory  if  they  had  ever 
met  before.  Atnedee  went  up  to  him  and  said : 

"  Sol  Tuttle  tells  me  you  are  David  Winthrop.  I 
am  Amedee  LaRr  che.  You  may  remember  me." 

He  spoke  with  a  certain  hard  frankness,  peculiar  to 
the  society  of  the  frontier,  and  irritating  to  the  society 
of  Saranac;  a  trifle  defiant  and  reckless  of  conse- 
quences that  might  follow  the  declamation. 

"  Yes,  confound  you,  I  do  remember  you,"  said  old 
David;  "you  carried  away  some  money  of  mine,  and 
spent  it  in  Texas  I  believe.  I  have  no  hard  feelings 
against  you  I  reckon  your  friends  will  make  it  un- 
pleasant enough  for  you  without  my  help." 

"  I  intend  to  get  ahead  there,"  said  Amedee  sourly. 
"  I  can  make  it  unpleasant  for  them  beforehand.  I 
am  no  thief.  I  never  stole  a  cent  from  any  man, 
and  I  mean  to  prove  that  the  money  you  lost  was 
never  taken  by  me." 

"  I  wish  you  could,"  said  Winthrop  sighing.  "  You 
don't  look  like  a  thief.  That's  in  your  favor  But  it 
is  not  looks,  it's  documents  the  courts  want,  and 
sworn  testimony,  and  clever  lawyers  to  make  argu- 
ments out  of  straw.  If  you  have  nothing  but  your 


144 

looks  and  words  to  fall  back  on,  you  will  be  in  Danne- 
raora  before  long." 

"  Wait  and  see.  It  is  a  good  beginning,  to  know 
that  you  have  some  faith  in  me.  Did  you  ever  hear 
the  story  of  my  leaving  tor  Texas." 

"No.  It  must  have  been  interesting.  Step  in 
here  to  Lemon's,  and  tell  it  to  me." 

The  hotel  office  was  vacant  and  there  the  story 
was  told  to  old  Winthrop  as  once  before  Amedee 
told  it  in  the  letter. 

"  Curious,"  said  the  old  man,  "  but  not  above  De- 
Launay.  Clever  rascal.  But  hold  on.  This  is  a 
rather  dry  story.  Boy,  bring  in  the  favorite,  and  some 
glasses." 

Amede'e  began  to  say  he  touched  nothing,  and  Sol 
to  murmur  that  the  pledge — 

"That's  all  right,"  said  David,  "don't  touch 
another  drop  to-day.  But  I've  met  you  first,  and 
you  must  celebrate  your  happy  arrival  at  my  ex- 
pense." 

However,  the  old  man  felt  some  misgivings  at  see- 
ing the  hungry  grip  of  the  glasses  taken  by  the  two 
men,  who  had  been  abstinent  for  many  weeks. 

"Not  another  drop  after  this  remember,"  he  re- 
peated. "  Nary  a  drop,"  said  SoL  "  Honor  bright." 

"  And  here's  to  your  success,"  said  David.  "  May 
you  show  up  the  villian  who  ruined  us  both,  and  clear 
your  name  of  every  stain.  I  would  like  to  help  you, 
but  I  am  old,  and  broken  down  I  am  no  use  ex- 
cept to  look  on  at  stronger  men  doing  the  work.  You 
have  a  hard  a  job  to  do,  and  you  don't  look  over 
healthy.  But  I  wish  you  luck.  Something  may  come 
of  it." 


145 

Winthrop  went  on  his  way.  The  two  men,  more 
than  elated  by  the  warmth  of  his  recej  tion  and  the 
strength  of  the  whisky,  posed  on  the  hotel  veranda  in 
high  good  humor.  Amede'e  felt  at  home  in  his  na- 
tive town,  and  enjoyed  to  the  full  his  position  as  the 
hero  of  a  romantic  story  soon  to  be  made  known  to 
the  world.  An  old  man  coming  down  the  street  was 
pointed  out  to  him  as  Tim  Grady.  The  latter's  eye 
was  already  fixed  on  the  stranger  of  fine  appearance, 
and  Tim  Grady's  mind  was  busy  with  surmises  on  the 
stranger's  occupation. 

"  Mornin',  Tim,  said  Sol,  beamingly. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Tuttle,"  said  Tim,  with  dig- 
nity. 

"I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Grady,"  said  Ame- 
de'e in  his  lowest,  humblest  tone,  arid  he  had  a  voice 
and  glance  of  winning  sweetness,  "and  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  me  for  my  behavior  the  last  time  we  met. 
If  I  had  known  you  — " 

"  Hould  on,"  said  Mr.  Grady,  "  I  never  to  me  own 
intimate  knowledge  had  the  honor  o'  meetin'  you 
afore.  Yer  name,  please." 

"  Amede'e  LaRoche,"  said  he  still  more  humbly. 

Complex  emotion  was  the  destruction  of  Mr.  Grady 
at  all  times.  The  suddenness  of  this  low-voiced  state- 
ment fixed  the  old  man  to  the  street  as  if  he  had  been 
turned  to  stone.  A  handsome  gentleman  on  the 
streets  of  Saranac  was  m  t  to  be  reconciled  with  the 
drunken  vagabond  of  a  Texan  village.  The  trans- 
formation had  been  accomplished  without  his  aid  or 
knowledge.  The  prophet  had  missed  the  most  im- 
portant event  of  twenty  years  in  the  history  of  Sara- 
nac. His  emotions  merged  finally  into  a  feeling  of 


146 

wounded  pride,  and  a  chuckle  from  Mr.  Tuttle 
brought  back  his  self  possession. 

"  We  met  at  a  saloon  in  Texas,"  he  said  sourly, 
"  an'  we  meet  agin  at  a  Saranac  saloon.  I  think  ye 
had  enough  o1  these  places  to  avoid  'em,  Amede'e. 
Have  ye  seen  yer  mother  ?" 

"  I  am  just  going  there,"  said  Amede'e. 

"  An'  have  ye  seen  Mr.  DeLaunay?" 

"  He  is  willing  I  shall  stay  here  if  I  want  to." 

"  Yer  all  right  then,  so.  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I'm 
overjoyed  to  meet  you,  an'  I  wouldn't  for  me  life  take 
any  stock  in  yer  sobriety  an'  reg'larity ;  but  ye  look 
well,  an'  I  hope  ye'll  do  well,  an'  take  the  shame  oft 
yer  dacent  father,  an'  the  sorra  from  yer  poor  mother. 
What  are  ye  goin'  to  do  first  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Amede'e,  "  first  and  last." 

"  That'll  suit  ye,"  said  Mr.  Grady  shortly,  and  he 
left  his  godson  without  a  word  of  sympathy  or  good- 
will. Amedee  felt  downcast. 

"The  man  they  say  I  stole  from  treated  me 
better  than  this,"  he  said  gloomily. 

"  You  spoiled  his  speech,"  chuckled  Sol.  "  He  was 
cutting  a  b'g  figger  out  in  Texas,  and  you  smashed  his 
first  chance  to  make  a  speech, — an'  his  last  I  reckon. 
How  kin  yer  expect  him  to  give  you  a  warm  welcome." 

Mr.  Grady  came  back  again  in  a  moment  and  took 
Amede'e  aside. 

"I  have  just  wan  bit  of  advice  for  ye,"  he  said  im- 
portantly. "  Kape  from  the  dhrink.  It  was  the  ruin 
o'  ye  from  the  start,  an'  it  will  desthroy  ye  in'.irely, 
now,  if  ye  give  way  to  it." 

How  much  the  man  profited  by  it  was  plain  the 
next  moment,  when  he  and  Sol  renewed  their  vows  of 


147 

friendship  over  a  second  dose  of  whisky  at  the  hotel 
bar,  and  solemnly  declared  that  this  was  the  last  drop 
to  touch  their  lips  that  day.  In  the  quiet  town 
Amede'e  made  a  lively  sensation.  His  fine  appear- 
ance and  easy,  often  reckless  manner  were  attractive 
to  the  heavy  natures  of  the  citizens.  He  had  a  good 
memory,  and  recognized  acquaintances  of  his  early 
youth  readily.  Passing  from  one  home  to  another, 
and  leaving  one  group  of  old  friends  only  to  gather 
another  group  further  on  detained  him  some  hours. 
Every  moment  he  was  starting  to  his  mother's  house, 
and  every  moment  was  delayed.  The  doses 
of  whisky  were  frequently  repeated,  for  Saranac 
people  are  convivial  to  an  extreme  degree.  Mr.  Tut- 
tle  within  two  hours  had  entirely  surrendered  to  his 
old  enemy,  and  was  now  moving  about  like  a  water- 
logged ship,  unable  to  talk  or  think  or  sleep,  wearing 
a  vacant  smile  for  all  comers.  Amede'e  grew  brighter 
under  the  influence.  Stupidity  came  to  him  only  after 
long  perods  of  hysterical  vivacity  and  insanity.  He 
lost  sight  of  his  danger  very  speedily,  and  forgot  his 
mother  altogether.  Those  whom  he  had  first  im- 
pressed with  his  fine  manner  began  to  smile  early  in 
the  afternoon  when  his  nervousness  and  Sol's  utter 
collapse  could  be  contrasted.  They  were  seen  for 
hours  on  the  streets.  John  Winthrop  met  them  once, 
and  bowed  very  stiffly  Sol  tried  to  speak  to  him  but 
could  only  motion  with  his  han  1. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  said  Amedee  smartly,  "  for 
what  you  have  done.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your 
feelings  by  taking  my  case  from  you.  But  I  wasn't 
satisfied,  you  know." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  complain  of,"  said  John  loftily. 


148 

He  watched  them  from  his  office  window  for  an 
hour  with  a  pleasant,  amused  expression  on  his  face, 
and  he  said  to  himself  that  things  looked  fair  for  Re- 
gina's  peace  of  mind  in  the  future.  It  was  while  he 
was  watching  the  movements  of  Araede"e  and  Mr. 
Tuttle  that  the  latter  collapsed.  He  sat  down  for  a 
moment  in  a  saloon,  and  gave  rousing  evidence  that 
his  sleep  was  not  to  be  broken  until  the  next  morn- 
ing at  the  earliest  For  the  rest  of  this  notable  day 
the  man,  who  had  come  from  Texas  to  vindicate  his 
good  name  before  his  friends,  made  his  tour  alone. 

In  his  ramblings  he  saw  the  old  church  where  he 
had  made  his  first  confession  and  Communion  He 
went  into  the  graveyard  and  read  the  names  on  the 
new  tombstones,  many  of  them  his  old  playmates.  He 
stood  at  the  church-door  and  wept,  not  daring  to 
enter  the  holy  place  ;  his  tears  were  of  course  largely 
prompted  by  alcohol,  but  the  feeling  of  reverence  was 
a  large  part  of  the  man's  character.  Further  down 
the  street  the  old  school-house  stood ;  he  peered 
through  its  windows  and  wept  again  as  he  thought  of 
the  innocent  boy  who  sat  at  the  desks  there  twenty 
years  before.  His  tears  failed  him  at  the  back  room 
of  the  saloon  where  his  foolishness  had  early  begun  to 
display  itself  in  gambling  and  drunkeness.  The  sight 
of  it  did  not  please  him,  but  he  stopped  at  the  bar 
and  took  several  drinks  of  his  favorite  liquor  with  a 
few  friends.  Saranac  liquor  was  mild  compared  with 
the  Texas  stuff,  and  so  far  it  had  given  him  only  a 
touch  of  recklessness  and  a  repressed  desire  to  raise  a 
war  whoop,  and  sing  a  war-song. 

The  citizens  of  Saranac  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  were  well  acquainted  with  his  story  and  his 


149 

extraordinary  charges  against  Mr.  DeLaunay.  They 
studied  him  with  delight,  and  were  half  inclined  to 
believe  him,  so  fine  was  his  appearacce.  But  this 
humor  was  changing.  The  innumerable  visits  to  vil 
lage  bars,  and  his  undoubted  sobriety  of  manner  after 
swallowing  liquor  enough  to  stupefy  two  hard  drinkers, 
let  loose  the  spirit  of  fun.  Bets  began  to  be  made 
on  the  time  necessary  to  set  him  drunk.  Respect  for 
him  began  to  wane.  His  tragic  story  was  bur- 
lesqued in  dumb  sho  v  by  the  idlers  on  the  corners. 
It  was  about  this  time  he  passed  from  the  sentimental 
state  into  that  condition  of  mania  which  Mr.  Grady 
had  witnessed  in  Texas.  For  the  first  time  thit  day 
he  wandered  by  the  office  where  DeLaunay  had 
pointed  a  revolver  at  him,  and  banished  him  from  the 
town  a  thief.  The  mere  recollection  of  it  threw  him 
into  a  fury.  He  would  not  wait  for  law  or  persuasion 
or  terror  to  avenge  him.  He  would  right  all  h:s 
wrongs  on  the  spot.  With  this  resolution  he  gave  an 
Apache  war  whoop  and  fired  two  shots  from  his  re- 
volver into  the  air. 

If  the  main  street  of  the  town  had  heaved 
itself  into  the  sky,  or  disappeared  in  the  lake  the  villag 
ers  could  not  have  been  more  surprised  or  terrified. 
Everyone  rushed  into  the  street  and  rushed  back  t-> 
the  house  again ;  for  the  war-whoop  and  the  firing 
continued  in  a  way  to  suggest  an  Apache  raid  on 
Saranac  with  fifty  warriors  in  the  band.  The  single 
constable  and  the  idlers  rushed  to  the  scene,  bravely, 
and  were  scattered  like  sheep  in  an  instant.  Amedee 
dashed  upon  them  with  whoops  and  flashing  revolv- 
ers, and  passed  up  the  street  like  a  madman.  Doors 
an-1  windows  were  barred  before  him,  citizens  dodged 


for  the  nearest  shelter,  lights  went  out,  fleeing  specta- 
tors carried  word  all  through  the  village  that  a  maniac 
was  killing  scores  of  people  on  the  main  street,  and 
blood  was  already  flowing  in  the  gutters.  For  a  half- 
hour  the  Texan  exile  owned  Saranac.  He  appeared 
so  quickly  in  unexpected  points  that  no  one  ventured 
forth  while  his  weapon  could  be  heard.  He  was 
searching  for  DeLaunay,  but  reason  had  finally  de- 
serted him.  He  knew  not  what  he  was  seeking,  but 
howled  and  raged  and  shot  into  the  air  in  pure  feroc- 
ity. The  constable  had  disappeared. 

Mr.  Tim  Gradv,  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  village, 
was  reading  the  fourth  page  of  his  weekly  paper — he 
never  reached  the  eighth  until  the  next  number  ar- 
rived— and  heard  nothing  of  the  disturbance.  When 
the  cries  of  frightened  people  hurrying  by  brought 
him  to  the  door  he  got  the  common  story,  and  shared 
the  common  dread.  The  whoops  had  a  familial 
sound,  however,  and  suddenly  Mr.  Grady  recognized 
the  character  of  the  situation.  Amede"e  LaRoche 
was  mad.  In  Texas  they  lassoed  him  in  this  condi- 
tion and  threw  him  into  a  barn.  Could  not  the  same 
process  be  tried  in  Saranac?  Mr.  Gra3y  pondered 
a  few  moments  until  an  idea  came  to  him,  then  he 
took  a  clothes-line  and  set  forth  to  capture  his  god- 
son. He  was  amazed  to  find  the  village  deserted.  In 
only  one  remote  residence  a  light  burned.  It  was 
Amedee's  home  where  his  mother  all  unconscious 
waited  and  prayed  for  him !  A  little  search  unearthed 
the  constable,  and  to  him  Mr.  Grady  unfolded  his 
plan  Ropes  were  placed  across  the  pathway,  and 
concealed  men  held  them  with  instructions  to  trip 
the  desperado  when  he  came  that  way.  The  consta- 


ble  and  Mr.  Grady  with  all  the  others  would  fall  upon 
him  and  bind  him. 

The  Texan  walked  into  the  trap,  and  fell  in  a 
perfect  tangle  of  ropes.  Before  he  could  recover 
himself  every  man  in  the  party  threw  themselves 
on  Mr.  Grady  and  the  constable  as  they  seized 
Amedee,  and  effectively  prevented  them  from 
binding  him.  In  fact  it  became  a  desperate 
struggle  on  the  part  of  the  undermost  to  save  them- 
selves from  suffocation.  Amedee's  howls  and  the 
men's  curses  drowned  the  constable's  orders.  The 
louder  grew  the  struggle  the  worse  it  became  for  the 
men  underneath.  The  almost  successful  capture  be- 
came a  burlesque.  The  crowd  set  upon  the  constable, 
and  tried  to  bind  him  while  Amede"e  slipped  away  in 
silence  and  ran  towards  the  lake  with  winded  Mr. 
Grady  in  hot  pursuit.  The  latter  had  not  breath 
enough  to  call  his  aids  to  follow.  Seeing  the  direc- 
tion which  the  fugitive  took  a  great  fear  seized  him 
that  in  his  mania  Amede"e  would  drown  himself,  and 
very  fervent  were  his  prayers  as  he  stopped  short  and 
turned  towards  a  boat  on  the  lake  snore. 

He  hoped  that  Amedee  hearing  no  pursuit  would  turn 
from  the  water ;  if  not,  the  boat  might  serve  to  save 
him  from  drowning.  He  had  no  sooner  pushed  off 
from  the  shore  than  the  splash  of  a  heavy  body  falling 
into  the  water  was  heard.  Mr.  Grady  pulled  desper- 
ately in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  Amedee  made 
no  secret  of  his  movements  ;  he  swam  directly  into 
the  bay  and  headed  for  Tuttle's  house  on  the  Point. 
He  had  no  intention  of  committing  suicide.  In  a 
tew  moments  Mr.  Grady  had  lost  sight  of  him. 
With  the  hope  that  he  would  reach  the 


other  shore  safely  Tim  returned  to  the 
scene  of  the  late  encounter,  and  engaged  two  men  to 
row  across  the  bay  after  the  fugitive.  The  constable 
<vas  much  depressed  by  his  struggle  with  his  own 
men.  Word  was  sent  around  of  the  fate  of  the 
maniac,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  terrorized  popula- 
tion were  on  the  streets  discussing  the  great  sensa- 
tion. It  was  the  common  opinion  that  the  madman 
was  drowned,  and  if  he  were  not  that  he  deserved  it. 
But  Amed6e  was  not  drowned.  The  cold  plunge 
had  subdued  his  mania,  but  had  not  restored  his 
senses.  A  gentle  stupor  benumbed  his  faculties,  and 
he  swam  by  instinct  towards  the  only  light  which  he 
could  see  from  the  level  of  the  water.  His  course 
was  parallel  with  the  shore  towards  the  railroad 
bridge.  In  a  half  hour  he  touched  bottom  and  stum- 
bled towards  the  light.  It  shone  from  his  mother's 
window,  from  the  dolphin  lamp  that  had  thus  shone 
for  twenty  years.  Madame  LaRoche  had  heard 
nothing  of  her  son's  arrival,  and  given  no  heed  to  the 
curious  noises  on  the  street.  She  was  alone  that 
night.  The  altar  was  lit,  and  she  was  praying  fer- 
vently before  it  when  the  door  opened  and  a  haggard, 
bedraggled  creature  staggered  in  stupidly,  stared  at 
the  altar  and  fell  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  It  was  thus 
Araed£e  LaRoche  came  home  to  his  mother. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

BANISHED. 

The  constable  had  moulded  public  opinion  in  his 
own  behalf  before  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning ;  to 
this  effect,  that  all  Saranac  believed  him  the  hero  of  the 
attack  on  the  maniac,  while  Tim  Grady's  name  was 


'S3 

barely  mentioned.  Tim  wholly  unconscious  walked 
forth  to  enquire  into  the  fate  of  his  god  son,  feeling 
that  all  eyes  were  upon  him  As  he  greeted  each 
neighbor  the  smile  on  his  face  .  invited  compliments, 
but  compliments  did  not  come.  The  constable  saw 
him  in  the  distance  and  avoided  him.  His  admirers 
met  him  and  were  dumb  on  his  achievement  Mr. 
Grady  was  mystified  until  he  heard  a  man  de?cribe 
for  a  stranger  the  whole  episode.  In  this  description 
the  constable  was  the  only  actor. 

"A  very  thrue  story," said  Tim  proudly,  "except  a 
slight  mistake  in  the  names.  'Twas  I  meself  that 
found  Constable  Dingy  hidin'  behind  the  red  store, 
afeard  of  his  life  to  show  himself,  /med  the  plan  to 
catch  LaRoche,  and  /  brought  down  the  ropes  wii 
me  own  hands.  Meanwhile  the  constable  was 
chewin'  straws  in  the  dark,  waitin'  for  a  fair  moon. 
I  put  the  b'ys  in  their  places  an'  gev  them  insthruc- 
tions.  Ov  coorse  Dingy  helped.  Whin  Amede"e 
sthruck  out  for  the  lake  I  meself  pursued  him,  an' 
got  a  boat  to  go  afther  him.  Who  in  the  divil  med 
out  that  poor  odd  Dingy  did  everythin'." 

"  I  reckon  I  heerd  him  tellin'  it  himself  to  a  lot  o' 
fellows  this  very  morninV'  said  the  man. 

"  Well,  ye  heerd  him  lyin'  then,"  said  Tim  rudely, 
"  an'  ye  can  tell  him  so  for  me  if  you  meet  him  afore  [ 
do." 

Tim's  inquiries  proved  the  constable's  diligence. 
Nowhere  was  Mr.  Grady  connected  with  the  rescue  of 
the  town.  He  had  some  trouble  in  securing  his  rights 
to  fame,  until  it  became  known  that  the  constable  was 
earnestly  keeping  out  of  his  way.  Then  the  efforts  of 
Mr.  Grady  to  get  justice  were  publicly  applauded  as 


154 

he  flew  through  the  streets  close  upon  the  heels  of 
the  village  official ;  but  though  the  latter  was  often  in 
view  he  did  not  permit  Mr.  Grady  to  get  near  enough 
to  hail  him. 

"Id  like  to  nail  him  now  wid  his  own  lies,''  said 
Tim,  "  for  to-morrow  there  won't  be  anny  satisfaction 
in  it.  Dingy  is  wan  o'  those  dhried-up  Vermounters; 
he's  a  fish  that  ye  can  eat  if  ye  kill  him  an'  cook  him 
on  the  shpot,  but  wait  till  mornin'  an'  ye  can't  handle 
him." 

The  fish  was  not  killed  and  cooked  that  day,  but 
Mr.  Grady  recaptured  his  honors.  In  addition  Tim 
condensed  and  shaped  public  opinion  with  regard  to 
Amede'e.  In  discussing  what  was  to  be  done  with  a 
character  so  dangerous,  many  citizens  thought  this 
first  display  of  wild  spirits  might  well  be  pardoned  in 
view  of  a  long  and  hard  exile  just  ended.  Tim  Grady 
disposed  of  these  tender  hearts  on  the  spot. 

"  There's  but  one  thing  to  be  did, '  said  he  severely. 
"  He  must  leave  the  town  and  go  back  to  Texas. 
They  can  lasso  him  out  there,  an'  they  have  con- 
stables able  to  manage  sich  divils.  Will  it  hippen 
again  ?  Sure,  that's  been  the  way  wid  him  the  last 
ten  years.  Every  month  ov  his  life  he  wint  dhrinkin', 
an'  howlin',  an'  shootin'  around  Texas  jist  as  he  did 
last  night.  He  had  friends  that  let  him  run  so  far,  an' 
thin  they  lassoed  him  like  a  steer,  an'  threw  him  any. 
where  till  he  kem  back  to  his  senses.  If  ye  let.  him 
sthay  in  Saranac  ye  must  hire  a  lassoer,  an'  be  ready 
to  pay  damages  for  the  harm  he  does." 

In  a  few  hours  the  Saranac  fathers  came  to  Tim's 
conclusions.  Oat  of  respect  for  the  Captain  his  father, 
in  consideration  of  his  long  exile,  nothing  was  to  be 


'55 

done  against  Amede'e ;  but  he  was  to  leave  the  town 
at  once  and  forever.  Tim  was  chosen  to  announce 
the  sentence,  an  office  which  vindicated  him  before 
the  LaRoches  for  the  hard  opinions  he  had  often 
expressed  on  Amede'e.  No  one  spoke  of  AmedeVs 
innocence,  or  of  his  charges  against  DeLaunay.  Even 
ill-minded  David  Winthrop  could  only  shake  his  head 
in  disgust  when  it  cime  to  connecting  innocence  with 
such  a  savage.  Tne  man  in  drink  was  capable  of  any 
crime.  This  sentiment  became  universal.  Ano  her 
grew  up  beside  it  which  no  one  could  account  for,  if 
an  accounting  had  been  asked  :  Mr.  DeLaunay  was 
an  honorable  and  much  slandered  man,  and  it  was  a 
great  pity  that  a  desperado  should  have  been  allowed 
even  for  an  hour  to  go  about  the  village  streets  de- 
nouncing a  most  eloquent  and  irfluential  citizen  as  a 
thief  John  Winthrop  had  deftly  set  this  sentiment 
afloat,  and  laughed  to  see  its  sudden  popularity. 

^hen  Tim  went  down  at  noon  to  warn  the  Texan 
of  the  feeling  in  the  town  he  found  the  Captain  and 
Madame  in  a  tremulous  state  over  the  poor  drunkard 
sleepirg  off  the  effects  of  his  debauch  in  the  next 
room.  They  did  not  yet  know  the  full  gravity  of  his 
case,  and  when  Tim  made  it  known  the  old  dogged 
spirit  arose  in  the  Captain's  breast. 

"  I  kin  stan'  a  lawsuit,  Grady,"  he  said  sourly, 
"  's  well  's  the  next.  Thief  or  not,  my  son  stays  in 
Saranac  with  his  mother,  d'ye  hear  ?  She  won't  let 
him  go." 

Mr.  Grady  described  the  terror  of  the  villagers  the 
night  previous,  and  reminded  him  that  this  madness 
was  one  ot  Amedee's  most  frequent  tricks. 

"It's  aisy   enough   to   fight   the   town,"  said  Tim, 


'5* 

"  but  kin  ye  stand  the  expense  ?  If  ye  go  bail  for 
that  b'y,  ye'll  be  med  to  pay  for  every  single  thing  he 
smashes.  It  takes  him  only  tin  minutes  to  desthroy 
a  bar  worth  a  fortune.  He  carries  revolvers.  He 
jumps  on  people.  What'll  ye  be  worth  if  ye  go  on 
his  bond  to  keep  the  peace?  Five  hundred  dollars 
every  time,  an'  the  coort  wont  spare  ye.  I  pity  the 
mother,  but  what  kin  ye  do  other  than  send  him 
away  ?'' 

The  money  question  staggered  LaRoche,  and  re- 
moved the  whole  case  from  the  region  of  sentiment. 
Bethought  it  over  some  hours,  and  could  see  no  way 
to  combine  paternal  pride  and  financial  interest. 
John  Winthrop  met  him,  and  mentioned  a  point 
which  had  been  overlooked. 

"  I'm  glad  your  boy  is  at  home  aga:n,"  said  the 
suave  lawyer ;  "  I  want  to  warn  you,  though,  that  he 
means  to  make  trouble.  He  has  been  talking  through 
the  town  about  Mr.  DeLaunay,  and  the  gentleman 
must  be  very  angry  over  it.  I  am  told  that  you  were 
paid  a  nice  sum  to  keep  the  boy  in  order.  If  you 
don't  do  it,  and  if  your  son  bothers  DeLaunay  you 
will  be  asked  to  give  back  that  money.  Your  son  is 
to  be  put  in  bonds  to  keen  the  peace,  and  you  will  be 
the  bondsman.  How  often  can  you  stand  being  bled 
like  that,  when  he  goes  on  a  spree,  and  DeLaunay 
will  certainly  ask  y0u  for  the  money  he  gave  you.  I 
tell  you  this  in  secret.  I  have  no  business  to  inter- 
fere in  the  matter  at  all  Please  don't  mention  my 
name  for  giving  you  this  hint,  which  is  worth  some- 
thing to  you." 

LaRoche  thanked  him  very  heartily.  He  went  away 
in  a  rage.  As  before  when  he  sought  to  do  something 


157 

for  his  son  the  whole  world  and  his  own  interest 
seemed  to  rise  against  him.  This  time  his  son  alone 
was  to  blame.  Had  he  come  home  like  a  man,  not  a 
maniac,  there  had  been  some  hope  for  him.  Now,  to 
raise  a  hand  in  his  behalf  meant  the  loss  of  much 
money,  so  much  that  the  pilot  grew  afraid  of  Amedee's 
remaining  a  day  longer  in  Saranac.  He  went  home 
in  a  panic.  In  a  few  hours  he  must  be  on  duty  and 
would  not  return  to  Saranac  for  two  days.  He  had  to 
protect  himself  against  danger  during  that  time,  and 
the  plan  which  presented  itself  to  him  was  that  Ama- 
dee  shou'd  go  back  to  Sol  Tuttle,  or  accompany  him- 
self that  night  to  Whitehall. 

Amedee  was  up  when  he  returned,  quite  sober,  and 
dressed  as  neatly  as  on  the  day  previous.  His  hea^y 
eyes  and  worn  face  had  lost  their  freshness,  and  the 
wetting  had  taken  the  gentility  from  his  garments,  but 
his  smile  was  bright  for  his  father. 

A  ten  minutes'  talk  with  his  boy  shook  the  Cap- 
tain's resolution  utterly,  and  perhaps,  but  for  Mr 
Grady's  appearance  to  announce  banishment,  he 
would  have  gone  away  without  dismissing  his  son 
from  his  mother's  house.  Tim  had  no  scruples,  and 
was  swelling  with  the  importance  of  his  office.  He 
hoped  Amedee  was  feeling  better  and  stronger  and 
able  to  travel ;  he  was  sure  his  memory  had  come  back 
to  him  with  the  double  wetting  he  had  given  himself 
the  day  before ;  a  very  pleasant  time  he  had  to  be 
sure,  which  must  have  reminded  him  of  Texas ;  and 
by  the  way  did  he  intend  to  return  soon  to  that  great 
State. 

"  I  shall  never  return  to  it,"  said  Amedee. 

"  People  are  anxious  to  know,"   said  Mr.  Grady 


calmly,  "  afther  yer  performance  yestherday.  They 
have  finally  concluded  that  Saranac  is  too  shmall 
an'  too  poor  to  support  a  young  gintleman  of  your  ix- 
pensive  shootin'  tastes ;  an'  they  think  ye  ought  to  go 
back  to  Texas ;  lasteways  they  sent  me  to  tell  ye  Sar- 
anac is  no  place  for  ye  ;  an'  if  ye're  not  gone  out  of 
it  in  three  days  they'll  arrest  ye  an'  put  ye  in  bond  to 
keep  the  peace." 

Madame  LaRoche  gave  a  cry  of  agony,  and  the 
pilot  hung  his  head. 

"  Bonds,"  said  Amede'e,  scornfully,  '  my  father 
can  give  bonds." 

"If  it's  only  bonds,"  said  Madame,  "it  is 
nothing." 

'•  I  thought  so,"  said  Tim,  studying  his  godson 
critically.  "  Ruined  yerself,  ye  think  nothin'  o'  rob- 
bin'  yer  father.  Bonds,  is  it?  Much  ye  tho't  o' 
bonds  yestherday,  whin  ye  ran  around  the  village 
crazy,  cursin'  an'  shooiin'  like  a  divil.  What  fool  'ud 
give  bonds  for  the  likes  o'  ye  ?  But  I  have  no  doubt 
yer  impidence  is  sthrong  enough  to  ask  bonds  iv  yer 
father  here,  that  ye  never  did  a  hand's  turn  for  since 
he  had  the  bad  luck  to  bring  ye  into  the  world." 

AmedeVs  face  grew  thoughtful  as  he  looked  at  hi« 
father  sitting  with  averted  face. 

"  What  do  you  say,  father  ?"  he  asked.  "  Could 
you  be  my  bondsman  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  pilot.  "The  risk  is  too  great,"  and 
his  head  dropped  lower.  Madame  was  very  angry 
with  him,  that  a  mere  bond  should  be  weighed  against 
her  son,  and  she  rejroached  Mr.  Graty,  but  Amedee 
checked  her  gently  and  said  to  his  father  : 

"It  was  wrong  to  expect  you  to  give  bonds  for  a 


159 

man  that  can't  be  trusted.     Tell  your  friends,  Tim 
Grady,  I  shall  leave  Saranac  in  three  days." 

Madame  protested  vehemently,  bat  the  pilot  ran  off 
tohis  steamer  while  she  was  declaiming,  and  Mr.  Grady 
escaped  to  tell  how  well  he  had  done  this  task.  Arne- 
dee  would  leave  Saranac  as  the  fathers  had  ordered. 

Jt  was  a  hard  blow  to  Amedee,  yet  its  bitterness 
strengthened  him.  If  he  were  to  get  back  his  good 
name  drink  must  become  an  unknown  quantity  to 
him,  and  he  took  a  second  resolution  of  deeper  earn 
estness  than  that  which  had  brought  him  out  of  his 
land  of  bondage,  Texas.  His  mother's  grief  was 
harder  to  bear,  and  her  pleadings  were  pitiful.  That 
he  was  able  to  resist  them  proved  a  strength  of  will 
unusual  in  him.  She  was  in  keen  distress,  but  with 
her  training  of  fifteen  years  in  the  school  of  self- 
repression,  it  was  easy  for  her  to  conceal  it. 

One  chance  was  left  to  her.  Captain  Sullivan  might 
save  Amede"e  yet,  and  his  mother  would  feel  for  her, 
and  speak  to  the  Captain  in  her  behalf.  Filled  with 
hope  she  went  to  see  Mrs.  Sullivan  Kindly  eyes 
looked  pitifully  at  her  as  she  passed,  for  all  tbe  old 
people  knew  her  story  and  her  hope,  and  were  grieved 
at  the  disappointment.  A  beautiful  woman  about  to 
enter  Mr.  Winthrop's  office  paused  to  look  at  her,  and 
seemed  shocked  at  her  appearance.  Madame  paid  no 
attention.  She  was  bent  only  on  saving  her  son  Mrs. 
Sullivan  had  never  received  a  visit  from  her  before, 
although  they  had  been  neighbors  for  three  decades. 
Madame's  command  of  English  was  limited,  but  she 
could  make  herself  understood. 

"  M'sieu'  Tim  Grady,"  she  said  slowly,  "  you  un'« 
stan'—" 


i6o 

"  Faith  that  name'll  do  for  anny  language,  haythen 
or  Christian,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

"  M'sieu'  Tim  Grady  no  want  my  boy  'ere  in  Sara- 
nac.  'E  mus'  go  'way,  far,  to  Texas,  un'stan'.  Mon 
mari  'fraid  ver  much  to  mek  de  bond  for  Amed£e. 
Me  no  fraid,  mats  Amedee,  pauvre  garcon, 
no  want,  no  take  bond.  Big  expense.  Oh,  Mon 
Dieu,  I  can't  lose  my  boy.  M'sieu'  Sullivan,  your 
boy,  he  speak  for  Amedee  to  Tim  Grady,  n'  Amedee 
stay  home  toujours. 

"An'  may  I  ask,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan  between 
anger  and  irony,  "  what  that  great  man  Mr.  Grady 
has  to  do  with  your  boy  shtayin'  where  he  pleases.  It 
seems  to  me  this  ould  gintleman,  the  ouldher  he  gits, 
the  more  he  interfares  wid  himself." 

"  I  think,"  said  her  daughter  who  had  entered  in 
t:me  to  hear  this  speech,  "that  Mr.  Grady  was  sent 
by  the  constable  and  the  justice  to  tell  her  son  he 
must  leave  town  on  account  of  his  behavior  yesterday. 
He  is  Amedee's  god-father." 

Able  to  describe  her  wishes  in  French,  Madame 
spoke  feelingly  to  the  two  women  in  her  son's  behalf, 
and  easily  won  their  promise  to  interest  the  Captain 
in  preventing  the  infliction  of  a  second  exile  on  her 
son. 

"  God  has  been  so  good  to  me,"  said  Madame,  "to 
bring  him  home,  to  save  him  from  drowning :  I  wish 
Him  to  leave  him  with  me  till  he  dies.  He  cannot 
live  long,  poor  boy,  his  cough  is  terrible." 

Mrs.  Sullivan  blessed  herself. 

"An'  is  it  Tim  Grady  that  'ud  put  a  sick  man  out  ov 
his  mother's  house,"  she  exclaimed.  "Well,  well,  the 
impidence  o'  some  is  wondherful,  an'  the  patience  ov 


others  is  beyant  countin'.  Ma'am,  I'll  set  Hugh  on 
Mr.  Grady's  thrack,  an'  I'll  go  bail  the  ould  man  '11 
lave  Saranac  afore  his  god-son." 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A   CLIMAX. 

John  Winthrop  went  up  one  day  to  tell  Regina 
all  that  had  happened.  His  manner  was  frank,  but  at 
heart  he  felt  how  much  he  was  really  keeping  back 
from  her  on  the  plea  of  professional  prudence.  The 
girl  was,  as  she  ought  to  be,  delightfully  honest.  She 
would  allow  such  brutes  as  Amede"e  to  take  away  her 
jewelry  and  her  purse  because  an  exile  of  fifteen  years 
was  very  painful.  He  had  to  protect  her  against  her 
own  beautiful  but  imprudent  sympathies  ;  and  what  a 
swelling  of  his  heart  there  was  at  the  bare  idea  of  pro- 
tecting her!  Yet  he  was  doing  it  on  business  prin- 
ciples, and  not  a  spark  of  sentiment  ever  betrayed 
itself  in  him. 

"  The  unexpected  has  happened,1'  he  told  her  dryly. 
'LaRoche  made  a  fine  impression.  The  fathers 
wa'ked  into  Saranac  through  what  you  must  permit 
me  to  call  your  imprudent  kindness." 

"  But  fifteen  years — his  mother,"  she  murmured. 

"  True,  these  are  things  women  remember.  How- 
ever, luck  was  on  your  side.  LaRoche  got  drunk 
after  his  Texan  fashion,  captured  the  town  with  fire 
arms,  terrorized  the  place  for  two  hours,  and  then 
jumped  into  the  lake — don't  scream — he's  not 
dead,  but  perhaps  he  leels  worse.  His  fine  impression 
is  dead.  Saranac  was  so  frightened  at  the  originality 
and  expensiveness  of  this  one  drunk  that  the  fathers 


162 

have  given  him  the  choice  of  departure  or  borHs  for 
good  behavior.  As  there  are  no  bonds  forthcom- 
ing he  will  return  to  Texas  this  week.  If  e  talked 
freely  of  your  father,  as  I  warned  you,  and  made  wild 
charges.  Not  a  soul  to-day  believes  a  word  he  ?aid. 
He  is  in  greater  disgrace  than  before." 

"  It  is  all  vry  unhappy,"  said  Regina.  "  I  hoped 
he  w  uld  stay  quietly  with  his  mother,  and  [give  her 
so  much  comfort." 

"  He  did  not  go  near  his  mother  at  all,"  said  John. 
"Nor  did  his  mother  care  much  to  have  so  drunken  a 
creature  about.  Still  he  has  since  charmed  her  into 
takir  g  a  natural  interest  in  him.  She  is  really  trying 
to  get  some  person  to  go  on  his  bond,  poor  woman. 
Quite  a  hopeless  task  1" 

But  a  keen  glance  at  Regina's  face  convinced  him 
it  might  not  be  so  hopeless. 

"  The  difficulty  in  getting  bondsmen  would  be 
nothing,"  he  continued,  "if  LaRoche  were  an  ordi- 
nary stupid  drunkard.  But  he  is  not.  He  is  a  mad 
devil  in  drink.  He  becomes  crazy,  ferocious  and 
murderous.  It  was  wonderful  that  he  r4d  not  jhoot 
a  few  citizens  this  time.  Tim  Grady,  his  godfather, 
says  that  every  drunk  in  Texas  was  marked  by  the 
same  terrible  mania.  What  would  have  been  your 
feelings  this  moment,  Miss  DeLaunay,  had  innocent 
blood  been  shed  by  this  man !  What  a  new  shame, 
what  a  terrible  grief  to  the  poor  mother  had  the  gal- 
lows ended  her  son's  career !" 

"  How  awful,"  said  Regina  paling  at  the  thought. 

"I  must  insist,'1  he  said  seizing  his  opportunity, 
"that  hereafter  you  leave  this  matter  entirety  to  me. 
You  must  promise  me  that  you  will  do  nothing  for 


this  LaRoche,  and  keep  out  of  his  way  should  he  at- 
tempt to  gain  your  sympathy.  This  is  a  veiy,  very 
serious  matter,  in  which  you  have  made  one  great 
mistake  already." 

"I  admit  it,  and  I  promise,  Mr.  Winthrop.  It 
frightens  me  to  think  what  might  have  happened  from 
my  permission  to  him  to  return." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  John  cheerfully.  "  Your  prom- 
ise reassures  me.  We  have  nothing  to  do  but  let  the 
elders  deal  with  LaRoche.'' 

"  I  thought  perhaps  it  would  be  proper  to  tell  my 
father  now,"  she  said.  "  He  must  soon  hear  it  from 
others,  and — " 

"  No  necessity,"  he  interrupted  gently.  "  Why  an- 
noy him  with  absurdities  To  tell  the  truth  I  am 
afraid  he  would  feel  called  upon  to  go  to  the  judge 
and  offer  himself  as  bondsman.  Men  of  his  charac- 
ter, charged  with  crime,  do  the  most  absurd  things  to 
let  the  world  see  their  confidence  in  their  own  inno- 
cence. No,  he  must  not  be  told." 

Regina  felt  a  warmth  about  her  heart  at  this  sin- 
cere and  flattering  speech.  Winthrop  believed  in  her 
father's  innocence  and  in  AmedeVs  guilt.  The  fact 
somehow  raised  her  father  in  her  esteem  a  little. 
Perhaps  she  had  been  too  hard  on  him,  and  had 
accepted  his  admissions  of  guilt  too  quickly  and  too 
liberally.  He  was  so  much  the  gentleman  in  speech 
and  manner,  and  Amecie'e  was  so  vulgar  a  rogue ! 
How  could  guilt  associate  itself  with  such  refinement, 
or  innocence  with  such  vulgarity !  She  felt  so  grate- 
ful to  him  that  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes  as  he 
rose  to  go.  After  all  this  was  a  friend.  He  read  her 
manner  like  a  printed  paragraph  and  went  on  his 


164 

way  with  a  smile  of  surpassing  joy  on  his  lips.  A 
few  days,  a  few  weeks  of  waiting,  and  his  hopes  would 
flower !  Meanwhile  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  doing  much 
to  hinder  their  flowering,  and  that  same  afternoon 
attacked  Tim  Grady  with  all  her  forces. 

"  I've  heerd  o'  banishin'  people  afore,  Misther 
Gra^y  but  I  never  thought  I'd  live  to  see  it  wid  me 
own  two  eyes  in  Saranac.  Crummle  banished  the 
Irish  across  the  say,  an'  the  Queen's  coort  med  me 
own  first  cousin  on  me  mother's  side  run  away  like 
mad  to  France.  But  thim  wor  ginerals,  an'  Queens, 
an'coorts!  They  hid  nothin'  else  to  do,  an'  they 
med  money  out  of  it.  But  you're  not  a  queen  or  a 
coort,  Misther  Grady, — though  divil  knows  what 
idays  you  do  be  havin'  o'  yerself,— an'  what  right  have 
ye  to  banish  Amedee  from  his  mother  I'd  like  to 
know." 

"  I  don't  admit,  Mrs.  Soolivan,''  answered  Grady, 
"  that  I'm  banishin'  Amedee  for  it's  the  coort  that's 
doin'  it.  But  if  I  could  banish  annywan  like  Crummle 
or  the  Queen  did,  'tis  I  that  would  sind  that  blaguard 
to  the  pole  if  I  could,  an'  maybe  yerself  along  wid 
him." 

"  An'  he's  yer  godson,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan  with 
srorn.  "  An'  ye're  as  much  bound  as  his  own  father 
to  look  afther  his  sowl.  Where  are  ye  sendin'  his  sowl 
to,  ye  poor  ould  banisher  ? 

"  I  was  proud  of  him  wanst  for  me  godson,  but 
I've  lost  me  pride.  I  don't  know  where  his  sowl  may 
go  to, — a  poor  place  I  think  for  he  acts  like  a  vilyan 
that  had  none.  Sowl  or  not,  ma'am,  he  goes  out  o' 
Saranac  this  blessed  day,  an'  he  may  thank  me  that 
it's  not  to  jail  he's  goin'  for  massacrayin'  the  town. 


He  thried  hard  enough  to  get  himself  hanged  for 
murdher." 

"  Oh,  but  it  was  the  pity,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan  with 
mock  sincerity,  "  that  he  didn't  take  ofi  a  few  ould 
men  while  his  hand  was  in  it.  'Twould  have  been  a 
blessin'  to  the  town.  Why,  ye'll  become  a  Roman 
imperor  yit,  Tim  Grady,  an'  knock  off  our  heads  like 
praties  whin  it  suits  ye." 

"Tisn't  heads  I'd  knock  off,"  said  Tim  with  a 
bland  smile,  "  but  I'd  deprive  yez  o'  yer  tongues,  so  I 
would." 

"  Oh,  an'  that's  what  yed  like,  to  have  a  crowd  o' 
neighbors  that  cudn't  say  a  word  back  to  ye.  Well. 
I'll  tell  ye  for  wan,  Tim  Grady,  ye're  not  goin'  to  be  lord 
and  masther  of  us  all,  an'  if  I  had  to  go  on  me  knees 
from  this  to  Ireland  I'll  see  that  Amed£e  stays  wid 
his  mother.  Put  that  in  yer  pipe  an'  smoke  it.  I'm 
not  a  queen  or  a  coort  or  a  gineral,  an'  I  have  no 
idays  o'  bein'  sich,  nor  I  wouldn't  have  'em  ;  but  if 
I've  lived  this  long,  an'  raised  a  son  that's  captain  o' 
the  finest  steamer  on  the  lake,  an1  can't  get  ahead  o' 
Tim  Grady,  thin  it's  time  for  me  to  be  dyin'.  So  look 
out  for  yerself,  ould  man,  from  this  minit." 

"  What'llye  do,"  said  Tim,  slyly. 

"  Ye'll  be  able  to  tell  whin  I've  done  it,  sor." 

"  Yer  fine  captain  was  in  it  afore,"  said  Mr.  Grady 
with  a  sneer,  "  an'  a  nice  mess  he  made  of  it.  Maybe 
he's  in  for  another  mess.  Wid  all  yer  talk  o'  doin' 
great  things,  let  me  tell  you  there's  jist  wan  thing  to 
do.  Anny  sowl  that  goes  down  to  the  coort  an'  gives 
bonds  for  one  thousand  dollars  can  keep  Amed6e  in 
Saranac.  Good-day,  ma'am." 

The  Captain  was  sleeping  in  his  room  upstairs,  and 


1 66 

the  earnestness  of  the  conversation  awoke  him.  He 
caught  the  last  remarks  of  Tim.  They  amused  him. 
He  had  heard  from  LaRoche  of  his  son's  return,  and  of 
the  grand  spree  ;  but  he  had  carefully  regained  from 
interesting  himself  in  the  details.  He  had  no  desire 
to  get  entangled  in  the  domestic  secrets  of  his  neigh- 
bora  after  his  recent  experience  with  the  DeLaunays. 

He  declined  to  interfere  much  to  his  mother's  cha- 
grin. Then  a  queer  notion  disturbed  him,  and  he 
asked  how  Amedee  came  to  Saranac,  and  how 
he  began  to  drink  that  day.  She  could  not  tell 
him,  and  in  a  spir  t  of  perversity  he  went  forth  to  in- 
quire. He  was  fortunate  enough  to  meet  Sol  Tuttle 
and  his  Sairey,  who  refused  to  allow  Sol  abroad  now 
unless  in  her  company.  Sol's  narrative  was  melan- 
choly but  striking. 

"  The  b^ty  come  in  one  night  nigh  on  to  six  weeks 
ago,"  said  Sol,  "skeered  to  death,  'fraid  DeLaunay 
might  see  him.  We  rigged  him  up  sum  mat,  an'  then 
I  come  over  to  see  Jack  Winthrop  'bout  goin'  to  law 
with  the  DeLaunays.  He  went  an'  fetched  over  Miss 
DeLaunay  to  the  Point,  an'  they  had  a  confab,  an' 
she  said  as  how  Amede"e  might  live  in  Saranac,  an* 
so  the  boy  come  over  in  my  company.  By  gum, 
when  I  come  to  think  on't,  the  hull  blamed  thing 
looks  like  a  cussed  trick.  The  first  one  we  met  was 
ol  Squire,  an'  he  asked  us  to  drink  We  did.  Then 
everybody  asked  us  to  drink.  We  did.  I  don't  re- 
member any  more.  But  now  they're  goin'  to  bounce 
that  boy.  It's  the  cruellest,  consarndest,  meanest 
thing  that  ever's  been  did  in  this  cusFed  mean  town. 
Wny,  he's  dyin'  row  with  consumption,  an'  he  ain't 
goin'  to  live  a  year  nohow/' 


i67 

The  Captain  turned  to  Mrs  Tuttle  for  confirmation 
of  these  statements. 

"Oh,  he's  gone,''  said  the  woman  ;  "  you  ought  to 
hear  him  cough.  He's  peart,  though,  an1  so  wild  you 
can't  tell  what's  wrong  with  him  right  off  But  I 
watched  him  six  weeks,  an'  I'm  sartm  he'll  be  dead 
before  Christmas." 

The  DeLaunays  were  defending  themselves  against 
danger  through  Winthrop.  There  was  a  bare  possi- 
bility that  Amedee's  spree  had  been  foreseen  and  ar- 
ranged. It  was  a  trick  of  the  legal  profession  which 
Winthrop  would  rejoice  in  practising  on  his  oppo- 
nents. The  Captain's  ire  was  roused,  and  his  sympa- 
thy too.  Since  Amedee  was  suffering  from  fatal  dis- 
ease some  clemency  should  be  shown  him.  Fifteen 
years  of  exile  were  too  much  for  an  innocent  man  to 
endure  and  then  be  hustled  in  new  disgrace  from  his 
native  town  by  the  guilty.  The  Captain  determined 
there  and  then  that  Amedee  must  remain  in  Saranac 
and  that  no  bonds  be  given  for  his  good  behavior. 
The  proper  person  to  be  put  under  bonds  was  Re- 
gina's  fellow.  He  went  at  once  to  the  town  officials, 
to  the  few  influential  citizens,  and  to  the  magistrate. 
Tim  Grady  had  been  ahead  of  him  an  hour,  and  it 
was  made  plain  that  mountains  mig):t  be  moved  much 
easier  than  they.  He  did  not  relish  a  visit  to  Regina, 
but  there  seemed  no  other  way  to  accomplish  his  aim, 
and  he  went  to  her  residence.  They  had  not  met 
since  the  shipwreck  on  Lake  Champlain,  and  greet- 
ings were  coldly  exchanged.  He  was  glad  to  find 
her  so  ungracious.  It  strengthened  him  much,  and 
in  turn  she  was  grateful  that  his  awkwardness  grated 
on  her  nerves. 


i68 

"  I  heard  this  morning,"  he  said,  "  that  they  ar-. 
about  to  dismiss  Amedee  LaRoche  from  Saranac. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  that  such  a  thing  would  rot  be 
right.  I  come  to  ask  your  intercession  for  him.  If 
your  father  expresses  a  wish  to  the  magistrate,  it  will 
be  obeyed." 

"  I  really  do  not  see  why  he  should,"  she  answered, 
but  her  eyes  sparkled  with  anger.  "  He  does  not 
know  of  the  man's  presence  here,  I  do  not  intend  to 
tell  him.  When  this  LaRoche  first  came  I  gave  him 
permission" — she  reddened  at  the  words  but  did  not 
withdraw  them — "to  live  in  Saranac.  He  misused  it. 
He  is  to  blame,  and  I  cannot  interfere  '' 

"I  think  you  should  interfere,'  he  said  bluntly. 
"  Please  understand  my  earnestness.  The  man 
must  not  leave  Saranac,  nor  be  simply  permitted  to 
stay  here.  I  shall  use  any  honorable  means  to  bring 
that  about.  You  can  do  it  by  a  word.'' 

"  I  shall  not  say  the  word." 

"  You  know  that  he  is  dying  from  consumption, 
perhaps  ?" 

"  No,"  she  answered  bravely,  but  the  information 
was  a  shock  to  her. 

"  He  cannot  live  more  than  a  year  or  two.  He  is 
a  broken  hearted  man  as  well.  Knowing  how  un- 
justly he  has  suffered  a  long  exile  you  cannot  think  of 
putting  this  additional  injury  upon  him  " 

"  He  put  it  upon  himself,  Mr.  Sullivan  His  be- 
havior a  few  days  ago  is  the  only  reason  why  he  must 
leave  Saranac." 

"That  was  an  accident  which  will  not  be  re- 
peated. And  perhaps  he  was  not  altogether  to  blame 
for  it" 


169 

"  I  wish  you  would  end  this  interview,  sir.  I  can- 
not do  anything  in  the  matter." 

"  Then  I  must  see  your  father." 

In  that  moment  she  hated  him.  He  seemed  as 
bent  on  obtaining  justice  for  the  wretched  Amede"e  as 
before  he  had  been  resolute  in  protecting  her  from 
exposure.  Her  anger  and  determination  had  not  the 
slightest  effect  on  him.  In  a  fit  of  pique  she  ex- 
claimed : 

"Why  are  you  so  perverse?  Was  it  not  you  that 
once  saved  us  from  this  man  ?  And  now  you  seem 
ready  to  hand  us  over  to  him.'' 

"  You  are  quite  wrong,  ma'am,"  said  the  Captain 
with  a  real  grin  of  delight.  "  The  poor  fellow  can't 
do  you  one  ounce  of  harm  if  he  talked  forever,  and 
he  can't  talk  much  longer.  You  have  nothing  to  fear. 
He  has  all  to  lose  by  this  second  kick-out.  His 
mother  s  care,  a  few  months  of  comfort  in  a  decent 
home,  and  permission  to  die  among  his  friends  aren't 
much  for  a  man  to  ask.  We  would  give  a  dog  such 
favors.  And  this  man,  you  can  t  forget,  is  an  innocent 
man,  suffering  for  another's  sins.  I'm  not  quite  sure 
that  it's  fair  and  just  to  treat  him  as  a  nuisance,  and 
that's  the  way  I'm  treating  him.  The  man  who  will 
give  bonds  for  his  good  behavior  can  keep  him  in 
town  in  spite  of  all.  But  it  would  be  an  outrage 
on  derer>cy  if  that  poor  fellow  were  treated  that  war. 
No  bonds,  Miss  DeLaunay,  and  no  permissions  for 
Amedee  to  stay  in  Saranac,  and  I  must  tell  your 
father  so." 

Regina  could  have  said  bitter  things  in  answer  to 
this  speech,  but  she  felt  it  would  not  be  wise.  She 
said  haughtily, 


170 

"  Since  you  must  see  him,  excuse  me  while  I  go  to 
prepare  him  for  this  unexpected  annoyance." 

In  the  hall  she  met  John  Winthrop  just  entering. 
He  had  heard  of  the  efforts  Hugh  was  making  in 
Amedee's  behalf,  and  lost  no  time  in  putting  his  cli- 
ents on  their  guard.  He  was  too  late.  With  deep 
interest  he  listened  to  her  account  of  the  recent  con- 
versation. 

"  Prepare  your  father,"  he  advised,  "  while  I  talk 
with  the  Captain.  If  he  is  determined  to  keep  Ame- 
de"e  here  there  will  be  no  restraining  him  openly. 
Strategy  can  ma'ch  him,  though,  and  do  you  hold 
firmly  to  your  position,  and  instruct  your  father  in 
like  manner." 

When  John  entered  the  Captain  greeted  him  with 
a  smile  that  spoke  volumes. 

"  I  knew  there  was  a  nigger  in  the  woodpile,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  never  guessed  'twas  thee.'' 

"  I  am  Miss  DeLaunay's  legal  adviser  in  this  mat- 
ter," said  John  formally. 

"  Was  it  by  your  advice  old  man  Winthrop  got 
Amedee  to  take  his  first  glass  of  liquor  in  Saranac, 
which  raised  all  this  trouble  ?'' 

"  I  wasn't  aware  of  my  father's  responsibility." 

"It  would  have  been  just  like  you,  John,"  said  the 
Captain.  "  I  know  you  foresaw  the  spree  if  you 
didn't  encourage  it,  and  invent  it.  The  man  hadn't 
touched  a  drop  in  three  months  before.  Had  he  kept 
sober  a  month  there  wouldn't  be  any  need  of  this 
errand." 

"  I  instructed  Miss  DeLaunay  to  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  the  affair,  leaving  things  to  take  their 
natural  course." 


"  Good  advice,  John,  but  it  won't  work  now.  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  that  the  man  shall  stay  in 
Saranac,  and  if  your  clients  don't  care  to  help  in  keep- 
ing him  here,  they  can  take  the  consequences." 

"  What  are  they  ?" 

"  Their  legal  adviser  must  know." 

"Those  absurd  stories  about  money  stolen  and 
books  doctored  ?  Very  likely  romances." 

"I  think  so  myself,"  said  the  Captain  humor- 
ously. 

The  lawyer  was  puzzled,  He  made,  however,  a 
direct  assault  on  Hugh's  determination  to  aid  Ame- 
dee  and  succeded  in  nothing.  The  Captain  took  his 
legal  adroitness  as  an  exhibition  of  cleverness,  which 
ought  to  be  admired  ;  and  then  Regina  entering  with 
her  father  the  young  men  put  on  their  politest  looks 
and  most  serious  behavior.  John  never  felt  his  ad- 
vantage over  the  Captain  so  keenly,  and  this  time  he 
was  on  the  winning  side.  He  was  defending  the  dear 
girl  against  the  chivalrous  but  vulgar  maladroitness  of 
Sullivan.  Mr.  DeLaunay  was  simply  superb  on  this 
occasion. 

"  Never  was  more  surprised  in  my  life,'  he  said, 
gaily,  "  to  hear  that  this  Texan  cowboy  was  in  Sara- 
nac, and  so  lively.  My  daughter  has  told  me  your 
kind  efforts  and  intentions  on  his  behalf,  Captain,  but 
they  are  quite  thrown  away.  I  did  all  that  was  fair 
when  I  settled  a  neat  sum,  a  very  neat  sum,  on  his 
father.  Mr.  Grady  thought  it  very  handsome,  but  I 
call  it  simply  neat.  I  really  can't  do  anything  more, 
and  as  for  letting  him  stay  in  the  town  I  would  not 
entertain  the  thought  for  an  instant.  Moreover,  if 
you  have  anything  more  to  communicate  on  this  sub- 


ject,  our  legal  adviser" — waving   a  graceful  hand  to 
John,  who  bowed — "  can  attend  tr.  you." 

Regina  writhed  under  this  speech  which  Hugh,  as 
she  could  see,  received  with  amusement. 

"I  don't  care  to  urge  you,"  said  the  Captain  in  his 
heartiest  voice,  "  but  I  want  to  say  that  I  don't  agree 
with  Winthrop  in  his  way  of  treating  this  matter.  The 
trick  may  work  smoothly  now,  but  how  about  three 
months  from  this.  The  man  is  really  sick  with  con- 
sumption, when  he  leaves  towa  his  mother  goes  with 
him,  and  they  will  probably  live  on  the  Point  with  the 
Tuttles.  That  breaks  up  a  home.  The  man  is  living 
only  two  miles  away.  He  has  hosts  of  relatives.  There 
will  be  some  immense  talking  done  among  them  all  in 
three  months.  Mr.  Winthrop's  father  is  interested  in 
this  talk,  and  would  willingly  try  to  give  it  form  to 
work  mischief.  Then  public  opinion  changes,  and 
who  can  tell  what  may  happen." 

Certainly  the  Captain  was  a  pitiless  adversary,  when 
he  dealt  his  friend  so  ruthless  a  blow  in  the  allusion 
to  his  father.  It  drew  a  start  from  DeLaunay  and  an 
exclamation  from  his  daughter,  but  John  remained 
outwardly  calm.  His  heart  was  fired  with  anger,  how- 
ever, for  the  enmity  of  Winthrop  and  DeLaunay  was 
truly  his  weakest  point,  and  allusion  to  it  humiliated 
him.  He  had  a  savage  reply  ready. 

"  I  see  that  Captain  Sullivan  puts  a  little  faith  in 
the  stories  which  this  LaRoche  was  telling  in  town 
the  day  he  got  intoxicated,"  he  said.  "  He  accused 
Mr.  DeLaunay  of  his  own  peculations.  I  had  once 
heard  these  charges  from  my  father,  who  insisted  on 
an  examination  of  the  old  books  of  the  firm.  The 
result  vindicated  Mr.  DeLaunay  as  clearly  as  it  would 


condemn  this  LaRoche  to  jail.     I   can  bear  witness 
to  this  fact." 

He  paused.  Regina  flushed  uneasily  and  her  father 
posed  like  a  seraph.  The  irreverent  Captain  sup- 
pressed a  grin,  and  gave  John  an  admiring  look  for 
his  cleverness. 

"Now  what  earthly  reason  does  there  exist  for 
Mr.  DeLaunav's  interference  in  keeping  this  des 
perado  in  town  ?  Why — " 

'•Cut  the  sermon  short,"  said  Hugh  rising.  <l  I  see 
my  time  is  wasted  here.  You  will  excuse  me  from 
remaining  as  I  must  finish  this  business  before  the 
steamer  goes  out  to-n;ght.  My  only  intention  in 
coming  here  was  to  enlist  the  influence  of  one  whose 
word  is  justly  powerful  in  Saranac.  As  for  poor 
AmedeVs  stories  I  don't  believe  them  any  more  than 
Mr.  DeLaunay  himself.  Good-afternoon." 

He  went  out  abruptly  convinced  that  after  all  the 
odium  of  being  put  in  bonds  to  keep  the  peace  must 
be  borne  by  Amed^e,  who  would  not  consider  it  a 
hardship;  and  the  Captain  must  be  tne  bondsman. 
He  thought  the  DeLaunays  took  the  affair  pretty 
meanly.  Generosi'y  would  not  injure  them;  of 
course  it  was  John's  doing,  and  John  had  a  point 
to  make,  a  point  which  would  not  be  benefited  by  the 
allusion  to  his  father's  hatred  of  his  former  partner. 
Hugh  laughed  to  himself  at  that  happy  touch.  It  was 
something  to  make  a  lawyer  pale,  and  turn  his  clients 
green  in  the  very  instant  of  triumph.  They  would 
hate  him  for  it  ever  after,  and  Regina  in  particular 
would  detest  him.  He  had  got  to  the  gate  by  this, 
when  Mrs.  DeLaunay's  imperious  voice  saluted  him. 
She  was  sitting  in  a  shaded  arbor  reading,  and  invited 


174 

him  to  enter.  He  accepted  because  of  an  instant  re- 
solve to  try  her  influence  in  AmedeVs  behalf.  It  was 
a  poor  chance  for  every  one  knew  the  lady  took  small 
part  in  the  affairs  of  her  own  household,  never  seemed 
to  be  intimate  with  her  husband  and  daughter,  ap- 
pearing more  the  guest  than  the  mother  of  the  family. 
The  Captain  told  her  a  very  discreet  story,  and  mar- 
velled at  its  effect  on  her.  A  fire  at  once  seemed  to 
heat  up  her  form  ;  color  in  her  face  and  ears  and  lips 
became  juvenile ;  she  threw  aside  the  novl,  a  smile 
of  hearty  delight  shone  from  her  face,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled  red.  Great  heavens,  thought  the  Captain, 
I  hope  this  is  not  more  trouble  ;  but  he  went  on  with 
AmedeVs  story  bravely. 

"  Certainly  the  poor  man  shall  not  leave  Saranac," 
she  said,  and  what  a  vibrant  ring  there  was  in  her 
voice.  "  You  just  came  from  my  husband  and  daugh- 
ter and  the  lawyer.  Let  us  go  back  to  them.  Pint, 
tell  me  are  you  convinced  that  this  LaRoche  is  inno- 
cent?" 

"  I  am,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Could  I  ask  if  you  are  as  certain  of  Mr.  DeLau- 
nay's  guilt  ?" 

He  raised  a  warning  hand. 

"  I  see.  You  are  on  your  honor.  Well,  let  us  go 
to  the  house." 

The  simple-hearted  Captain  never  forgot  that  going 
to  the  house,  and  often  compared  it  to  the  last  scene 
in  a  play.  It  was  really  that,  and  as  Mrs.  DeLaunay 
had  once  been  a  successful  and  clever  actress,  she  im- 
ported into  the  scene  all  the  dash  and  intensity  of  a 
theatrical  climax.  When  she  walked  into  the  parlor 
where  the  three  still  sat  discussing  the  Captain's  ec- 


175 

c°ntricitles,  Mr.  DeLaunay  shrank  into  his  chair  and 
Regina  grew  brea'hless  with  terror;  though  her 
mother  was  smiling  and  self  possessed  and  there  was 
no  evidence  of  a  thunderbolt  from  that  clear  sky. 

"  My  love,"  said  she  to  her  husband,  "  I  am  sorry 
to  spoil  all  your  plans,  but  really  y^u  must  see  to  it 
that  Amedee  La  Roche  remains  in  Saranac.  Captain 
Sullivan  has  so  interested  me  in  that  man's  story  that 
I  could  never  rest  easy  if  he  did  not  die  here,  and 
give  us  all  a  chance  to  devote  ourselves  to  him  while 
he  lives.  "What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  Certainly,  madame,"  gasped  the  husband,  "  as  you 
say." 

•'  Thanks.  Captain,  you  can  go  home  content. 
Mr.  Winthrop,  so  sorry  to  spoil  your  clever  plans. 
Regira,  your  dear  papa  and  I  will  talk  the  matter 
over.  Good-day,  gentlemen." 

Regina  fled  in  a  state  of  collapse  to  her  room,  and 
the  men  went^away  together,  the  lawyer  shocked  and 
mortified,  the  Captain  nearly  bursting  with  1  inghter 
at  his  friend's  overthrow.  Husband  and  wife  were  left 
alone  in  the  parlor.  Any  one  could  understand  that 
this  was  a  case  of  vivisection,  and  that  Mr.  DeLau- 
nay's  escape  was  impossible. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

WINTHROP   IN    FAVOR. 

The  last  days  of  the  summer  were  days  of  terror 
to  Regina,  and  nearly  drove  her  to  desperation.  A 
new  character  had  suddenly  entered  the  household. 
Her  mother  in  one  hour  had  become  so  completely 
another  person,  that  a  second  wife  introduced  by  Mr. 
DeLaunay  could  hardly  have  created  such  a  revolu- 


tion.  The  woman  that  hitherto  ruled  the  establish- 
ment had  been  a  curious  but  ordinary  creature,  whose 
grand  manner,  languid  airs,  and  polite  nagging  of  her 
husband  suggested  a  lurking  scorn  of  her  surroundings. 
She  had  never  been  the  hou:e-mother,  anxious,  fore- 
seeing, nervous.  The  irritation  of  domestic  cares,  of 
training  a  girl  to  womanhood,  of  enduring  the  caprices 
of  an  elegant  loid  never  seemed  to  reach  her,  or  in- 
terest her.  She  found  one  thing  as  dull  as  another, 
one  day  the  same  as  the  preceding,  and  never  occu- 
pied herself  earnestly  with  any  one  but  herself.  She 
was  really  a  cipher  in  the  house,  self  elected  t  >  insig- 
nificance, and  probably  determined  that  no  one  should 
know  anything  about  her.  Once  when  Regina  tried 
to  register  what  she  knew  about  her  mother  two  facts 
alone  presented  themselves,  that  she  liked  novels  and 
coffee.  Mrs.  DeLaunay  might  have  dismissed  these 
luxuries  had  she  known. 

In  one  hour  this  character,  thanks  to  the  stubborn 
spirit  of  Hugh  Sullivan,  had  vanished  like  a  ghost. 
Its  substitute  was  not  disagreeable,  but  it  was  in- 
tended to  be.  From  insignificance  Mrs.  DeLaunay 
leaped  to  despotism,  none  the  less  felt  that  it  was  per- 
fectly polite ;  from  langu  jr  she  passed  to  sprightliness ; 
once  bent  on  being  bored,  now  she  found  pleasure  in 
all  things.  Visitors  would  wonder  what  sort  of  a 
creature  she  was ;  it  was  easy  enough  at  this  moment 
to  learn  her  good  and  bad  qualities  between  breakfast 
and  luncheon.  Regina  was  terrified  at  the  first  ex 
hibition  of  this  new  character.  Her  father  from  the 
hour  he  was  left  in  the  parlor  with  his  wife  remained 
in  a  state  of  stupor.  The  three  met  at  dinner  that 
evening.  Mrs.  DeLaunay  was  at  her  ease,  and  was 


177 

dressed  in  colors.  There  was  a  suspicion  of  rouge  on  her 
cheeks,  her  eyes  sparkled,  she  smiled  on  her  two  re- 
latives in  Lady  Teazle  fxshion,  gay,  bewitching,  good- 
humored. 

'•  You  are  too  sober,  Regina,"  she  said.  "  Had  I 
known  as  much  about  papa  as  you,  I  would  have  been 
quite  mad  with  good  spirits." 

Regina  never  heard  her  father  called  papa  before, 
and  shuddered. 

"  But  he  had  his  secrets  from  you  as  well  as  from 
me,"  she  went  on  with  a  charming  glance  at  DeLau- 
nav,  "so  that  we  aie  quite  even.  Only  you  must 
know  the  other  secret  also.  You  have  no  objection, 
my  love,"  turning  to  her  husband. 

"  None  whatever,"  said  he.  "It  will  do  the  girl 
good  to  know  us  both  well." 

"  Some  time  when  I  am  not  busy  I  shall  tell  you 
the  story,  Regira,''  she  said.  "  It  will  supplement 
that  which  this  LaRoche  tells  about  your  father.  By 
the  way,  papa,  is  it  all  true  ?" 

"  Didn't  Sullivan  tell  you,"  snapped  DeLaunay, 
"  of  course  it's  true  but  you  can't  prove  it." 

"  The  culprit's  confession  proves  it,"  his  wife  re- 
plied with  a  provoking  smile  "You  should  berrore 
careful,  Howard.  No,  Captain  Sullivan  would  tell 
me  nothing.  He  was  bound  to  silence,  I  inferred. 
All  he  would  tell  me  was  the  common  reports  in  the 
town." 

Father  and  daughter  exchanged  glances. 

"Even  your  shrewd  lawyer,  Regina,  could  not 
match  the  cleverness  of  the  lake  Captain.  It  was 
such  a  chance  too !  I  sat  in  the  arbor  reading  when 
he  passed,  quite  discouraged  by  your  refusal  to  do 


i78 

anything.  Then  he  canoe  in  and  told  me  all.  No 
novel  I  ever  read  could  approach  tt.  And  it  explained 
so  much  that  had  been  mysterious  to  me.  The  way 
you  two  treated  the  Captain  after  the  play  last  winter 
was  shameful,  but  now  it  is  explained.  I  must  say 
you  did  not  encourage  him  much  to  keep  the  secret." 

"  Regina  wouldn't  let  me  offer  him  money,"  said 
the  father. 

"  Very  sensible  of  her.  I  think  Captain  Sullivan 
does  not  keep  secrets  for  money." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  kept  it  anyway,"  said  Regina, 
"  he  must  have  told  it  to  Mr.  Winthrop." 

"  Hardly,"  replied  the  mother  with  a  Lady  Teazle 
glance,  "these  two  young  men  will  never  exchange 
secrets  again.  You  puzzle  me,  Regina.  One  tirne  you 
encourage  the  Captain,  another  time  it  is  the  lawyer." 

"  I  never  encouraged  either,  mamma,"  with  a  deep 
and  angry  blush.  u  I  am  sure  their  behavior  has 
never  been  loverlike." 

"  I  wouldn't  want  either  in  the  family,"  said  De- 
Launay  crossly.  "  They  know  too  much  about  our 
affairs,  particularly  this  d — ah,  LaRoche." 

"  That  reminds  me,"  said  Madame,  "  of  what  we 
must  do  for  that  most  unfortunate  young  man.  First, 
he  must  be  invited  here." 

"  Here,"  exclaimed  the  two  in  dismay. 

"  I  admit  it's  not  much  of  an  honor  for  him,''  she 
answered  much  cast- down  apparently,  "  but  it  will 
make  an  impression  on  the  town.  It  will  help  to 
establish  the  man's  good  name.  Funny  isn't  it, 
Howard,  that  an  honest  man's  reputation  can  be  re- 
stored by  a  visit  to  the  gentleman  who  stole  the  money 
he  was  condemned  for  stealing.  It's  a  queer  word." 


179 

She  reflected  a  few  moments  on  the  world's  queer  ^ 
ness  while  the  otners  sat  silent. 

"  I  don't  see  what  good  can  be  done  by  such  con- 
duct," grumbled  her  husband. 

'•  His  good  name,"  said  she. 

"  What  do  these  curs  care  for  a  good  name  ?  " 

"  Far  more  than  silky  terriers,"  said  madame,  "  for 
it's  all  they  have.  But  don't  get  irritable,  Howard 
I  shall  find  a  way  to  do  everything  that  will  not  jar 
your  nerves.  But  you  shall  entertain  this  man  before 
the  whole  world,  and  seat  him  at  your  right  hand,  and 
embrace  him  as  a  son  when  he  is  leaving.  And  Re 
gina  will  play  and  sing  and  declaim  for  him,  and  smile 
upon  him.  You  owe  h'm  reparation  for  your  recent 
effort  to  keep  him  out  of  Siranac  forever.  That  lost 
you  Captain  Sull. van's  regard,  Regina." 

"  I  think,  mamma,  you  are  determined  to  make  it 
disagreeable  for  papa  and  me,"  said  Regina.  "  In 
which  case  I  must  get  ready  to  visit  New  Yoik." 

"I  could  make  it  more  disagreeabl;  for  you  in 
New  York,  darling,1'  said  mamma  coolly.  "  IJ.ow 
would  a  column  or  two  in  the  New  York  papers  ap- 
pear to  your  friends  there,  containing  a  complete  ac- 
count, with  headlines,  of  Mr  DeLaunay's  tricks  fifteen 
years  ago,  the  innocent  man's  return,  and  your  pres- 
ence in  New  York." 

A  heavy  silence  acknowledged  the  power  of  the 
threat. 

"  But  ihen,  dearest,"  mamma  went  on  in  her  sweet- 
est way,  "don't  think  that  I  shall  do  anything  to  make 
you  miserable.  The  road  of  reparation  is  not  pleas- 
ant to  the  feet,  but  how  stimulating  to  the  moral 
nature  !  " 


i8o 

She  laughed  then  at  the  despair  of  the  two  faces 
before  her. 

"Your  moral  nature  needs  stimulus,"  she  said, 
"  and  hereafter  I  shall  read  to  you  daily  a  portion  of 
Parker's  sermons.  I  have  neglected  my  duty  in  that 
respert,  though  not  so  far  as  to  steal  or  injure  a  man's 
good  name.  Well,  (*on't  let  me  bore  you,  dears.  Feel 
assured  that  I  shall  sugar  coat  all  the  pills  I  insist 
upon  your  swallowing." 

When  dinner  was  over  father  and  daughter  fled 
from  her  to  the  refuge  of  his  sitting-room.  Regina 
implored  him  to  tell  her  what  influences  could  have 
changed  her  mother  in  a  few  hours  from  an  ordinarily 
disagreeable  person  to  a  creature  so  vengeful  and  ill- 
tempered. 

"  I  have  had  the  upper  hand  of  her  for  years,"  said 
DeLaunay,  "but  we  have  changed  places  now.  That's 
all,  Regina,  upon  my  ward.  She  is  now  the  mistress 
of  this  house  and  the  boss,  if  I  may  use  that  terrible 
word.  Put  a  beggar  on  horseback,  and  you  know 
where  he  will  ride.  Not  that  your  awful  mother  was 
ever  anything  but  a  princess.  You  want  me  to  ex- 
plain ho v  we  came  to  change  positions?  Well,  I 
think  she  can  tell  the  story  better.  I  have  quite  for- 
gotten it,  but  it's  as  fresh  in  her  memory  as  new  paint 
Oh,  what  a  life  is  in  store  for  us  hereafter." 

He  dropped  his  cigar  and  groaned  in  real  anguish, 

"  She  must  be  restrained  somehow,"  Regina  said 
desperately.  "  Our  lives  are  not  too  happy  that  more 
misery  should  come  into  them.  Can  you  suggest 
anything,  papa  ?" 

"  Hear  her  story  first,  Regina,  and  then  you  may 
think  of  something,  /am  helpless." 


There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  "  What  a  home,"  she 
said,  as  she  went  out  into  the  garden  to  suffer  alone 
the  melancholy  that  oppressed  her.  The  soft  night 
was  not  lighted  by  moon  or  stars,  a  haze  hung  be- 
tween earth  and  sky,  and  the  bold  light  on  the  distant 
point  shone  strongly  over  the  lake.  A  restless  and 
fretful  wind  had  the  water  sighing  heavily  along  the 
shore.  Regina  listened  to  it  with  tears,  and  thought 
of  the  pure  and  peaceful  homes  about  her  where  sin 
and  discord  had  never  found  hospitality. 

Her  grief  at  the  deficiencies  of  her  own,  home  began 
to  tell  upon  her  in  spite  of  her  strong  pride.  Her 
mother  could  not  but  see  it. 

Mrs.  DeLaunay  was  not  without  some  friction  of  a 
mother's  love,  and  was  a  woman  of  grtat  generosity. 

"  I  can  see  how  troubled  you  are,  dear,  over  our 
domestic  trials,"'  she  said,  "and  I  must  show  you  how 
they  can  be  used  for  your  own  happiness.  You  dream 
ot  making  yonr  father  and  me  friendly  once  more.  It 
is  useless  to  think  of  it.  It  is  unnecessary  too.  We 
have  never  been  intimate  or  friendly,  and  it  is  too 
late  to  begin  now,  supposing  we  had  the  best  of  dis- 
positions, which  we  haven't.  But  then  we  are  old  and 
sensible.  We  can  observe  the  proprieties,  and  avoid 
becoming  in'olerable  to  each  other;  and  you  can  go 
away — I  mean  by  marriage  of  course — without  fear- 
ing that  we  shall  turn  into  wolves  and  eat  each  other 
up." 

This  language  was  so  practical,  and  the  tone  so 
natural  that  for  a  moment  Regina's  face  lighted  up 
with  hope. 

"Is  it  really  necessary,"  continued  Madame,  "that 
I  should  tell  you  all  about  your  father  from  the  be- 


182 

ginning,  in  order  to  explain  why  I  admire  him  ?  No, 
of  course  not  I  see  that  by  your  face.  You  know 
where  he  is  row.  He  was  never  any  worse.  His 
whole  life  has  been  most  respectable.  But  I  can  just 
hint  at  one  trouble  of  many  years  back,  and  you  can 
guess  the  rest.  I  was  an  actress,  dear,  and  I  notice 
you  have  some  of  my  talent.  I  was  gay,  and  foolish 
too  in  those  days,  and  enjoyed  life  very  much.  Once 
your  father  caught  me  just  as  ST  Peter  Teasle  caught 
his  young  wife  behind  the  screen ;  the  worse  for  him 
perhaps  that  he  knew  my  innocence  as  well  as  I  did. 
He  lorded  it  over  me  in  his  own  peculiar  way  from 
that  day  until  the  moment  Captain  Sullivan  told  me 
a  true  story  of  him ;  the  story  told  of  me  was  false. 
That's  all,  dear.  Don't  let  our  selfish  ways  trouble 
you  any  more." 

"  If  you  would  not  do  and  say  so  many  things  to 
frighten  one,''  said  Regina 

"  Your  papa  is  not  frightened,"  Mrs.  DeLaunay  said 
placidly,  "but  he  knows  I  will  do  and  say  startling 
things  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  As  in  plays  they 
don't  count.  They  never  bring  about  any  tragedies. 
You  are  so  conservative  they  frighten  you.  You 
should  get  married,  dear.  It  would  be  a  way  out  of 
your  troubles." 

This  quite  took  Regina's  breath  away,  but  she  ven- 
tured to  say : 

"  I  was  thinking  of  it. ' 

"These  slow  Saranao  boys,"  said  her  mother, 
"  should  have  made  you  think  more  smartly  long  ago. 
Who  would  think  Captain  Sullivan  and  Mr.  Winthrop 
had  been  dashing  soldiers  to  see  them  making  love. 
I  would  advise  you  to  choose  the  Captain.  He  is  the 


less  refined,  but  he  is  s®lid  and  simple-hearted.  Then 
he  has  some  piety,  which  in  marriage  is  a  great  help 
to  love.  But  Mr.  Winthrop  is  a  charming  man,  and 
much  better  suited  to  your  disposition.  Of  course  it's 
mostly  a  heart  matter,  very  properly.  You  cannot 
do  better  than  to  follow  your  heart." 

The  conversation  ended  there  for  she  d;d  not  take 
her  mother  into  her  confidence  ;  and  scarcely  to  her 
self  she  mentioned  the  thoughts  which  from  that  da,- 
soothed  and  occupied  her  mind.  John  Winthrop 
wou'd  rejoice  to  be  her  deliverer.  He  was  a  gentle- 
man by  blood  and  training,  a  gallant  soldier,  a  proud, 
patient  wooer,  a  faithful  friend.  She  had  been  struck 
with  his  devotion  to  the  Captain.  In  the  LaRoche 
matter  they  had  been  on  opposite  sides,  and  a  natural 
and  strong  temptation  to  betray  the  contents  of  that 
letter  must  have  beset  Winthrop.  Yet  not  a  hint  had 
once  been  breathed  of  Sullivan's  heartless  disregard  of 
his  solemn  word.  To  console  Winthrop  for  his  recent 
defeat  she  thanked  him  for  his  consideration  ! 

'•  I  know,  no  matter  how,"  she  said,  "  that  Captain 
Sullivan  told  you  months  ago  of  our  scandal.  He 
broke  his  word  then,  and  he  has  broken  it  since  in 
ways  that  woul  1  have  justified  even  his  friend  in  tell- 
ing the  truth  about  him.  You  have  been  silent.  I 
think  it  was  honorable  and  very  kind." 

"  Thank  you,"  stammered  John,  in  great  torture. 
The  traitor  praised  for  his  fidelity !  The  eulogy  from 
Regina  made  him  cold  and  faint. 


i84 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A    LAWN-PARTY. 

Captain  Sullivan  after  one  visit  to  Amed£e  got  a 
feeling  of  confidence  in  the  regenerated  exile.  This 
confidence  increased  with  the  accounts  that  were 
regularly  brought  to  him  of  Amedee's  rise  to  mild 
affluence  under  the  distinguished  patronage  of  Mrs. 
DeLaunay.  This  lady  made  her  appearance  on  the 
field  at  the  moment  her  protege  was  sufficiently  re- 
covered to  present  himself  before  the  public  as  finely 
dressed  as  on  his  arrival  in  town.  His  appearance 
language,  manner  charmed  and  disappointed  her. 

"  This  is  a  gentleman,''  she  thought,  "  where  I 
looked  for  a  picturesque  rogue,  rough  enough  to  con- 
trast well  with  my  husband.  There  will  not  be  much 
excitement  developing  him,  unless  he  gets  to  smash- 
ing things  again." 

Briefly  she  offere  _  ±n  behalf  of  Mr.  DeLaunay  to 
furnish  the  money  for  any  business  that  Amed6e  de- 
sired to  take  up  ;  or  to  get  him  any  position  that  his 
health  and  ability  would  permit  him  to  accept ;  and 
it  was  to  be  well  understood  that  the  DeLaunays  no 
longer  looked  upon  him  as  an  embezzler,  but  an 
honest  and  injured  man. 

"  It  would  make  too  much  trouble,"  she  explained 
to  Amed6e,  "  to  declare  openly  that  a  certain  person 
stole  the  money  and  doctored  the  books,  though  / 


1*5 

would  not  object.  But  when  you  are  asked  about 
your  share  in  tht  stealing,  declare  your  innocence  and 
refer  to  the  three  members  of  the  DeLaunay  family  as 
authority." 

Amedee  thanked  her,  and  said  he  would  take  time 
to  select  a  business  or  a  position.  When  he  was 
ready  he  would  let  her  know. 

"  And  I  would  be  pleased  to  know  something  more 
about  you,"  she  said.  "  You  must  have  had  some 
cur.ous  experiences  in  Texas.  Call  when  you  have 
time,  and  Jet  us  hear  them  from  your  own  lips.  Mr. 
DeLaunay  would  be  so  interested." 

Amedee  consented  to  call ! 

The  certainty  of  restoration  to  public  esteem  gave 
him  new  life  and  purrose,  which  for  a  time  served 
to  conceal  the  ravages  of  dissipation  and  disease. 
He  decided  after  a  little  thought  to  go  into  the 
dry  goods  business.  It  was  light  and  agreeable, 
and  the  selection  pleased  his  patroness  who  had 
expressed  to  John  Winthrop  a  fear  that  it  might 
be  groceries.  She  had  made  Winthrop  her  agent. 
Amedee  seemed  reluctant  to  take  her  favors 
through  John's  willing  hands  ;  but  he  did  not  openly 
object,  and  the  lawyer  behaved  with  tact  and  true 
sympathy  The  store  was  selected,  the  announce- 
ments made,  the  signs  painted,  the  most  dazzling 
array  of  town  merchandise  piled  on  the  shelves. 
Saranac  looked  on,  wondered  and  gossiped  ;  Ame- 
dee's  friends,  and  at  that  moment  they  were  few, 
beamed  with  joy.  Madame  went  once  to  look  at  the 
new  place,  and  walked  home  in  ecstacy,  after  leaving 
a  bouquet  and  many  grateful  tears  with  delighted 
Mrs.  Sullivan.  LaRoche  however  avoided  the  place 


1 86 

from  a  sad  presentiment  that  Amedee  would  wreck 
the  establishment  wuhin  a  month  and  create  a  scan- 
dal whose  history  would  be  a  Saranac  laugh  for  years. 
Even  in  his  dreams  the  anxious  pilot  saw  the  main  street 
strewn  with  calicoes,  muslins,  ribbons  and  underwear, 
and  heard  the  shrieks  of  his  drunken  son,  even  as  Tim 
Grady,  with  fatal  attention  to  detail  described  them 
to  him.  Every  morning  of  his  arrival  in  Saranac  lie 
looked  suspiciously  into  the  faces  of  tV*e  dock  loungers, 
dreading  to  see  there  the  news  of  an  outbreak. 
( im  Grady  saw  Amedee  take  possession  of  his  place 
of  business  one  August  morning,  and  stoo  \  with  pro 
phetic,  sarcastic  grin  across  the  street  while  the  goods 
were  uncovered  to  the  light.  It  was  the  prettiest 
store  in  the  town  ;  already  its  proprietor  was  showing 
that  his  native  cleverness  had  not  left  him,  and  that 
he  had  used  his  travels  to  some  purpose.  In  time  all 
Saranac  was  there  to  see  and  to  buy,  but  at  the  open- 
ing hour  Mr.  Gra  iy  had  the  spectacle  to  himself.  His 
godson  paid  him  no  attention.  Tim  was  compelled 
to  utter  his  prophecy  to  the  air. 

"  If  inside  o'  wan  month,"  said  Mr.  Grady  to  the 
sweet  morning,  "  this  gossoon  hasn  t  at  en  every  bit  o' 
cloth  in  his  shtore,  I'm  willin'  to  hang  meself  higher 
than  Haman,  I'm  that  sure  of  it.  But  it's  a  fine 
shtore  anyhow." 

This  praise  was  not  uttered  in  a  spirit  of  admira- 
tion, but  of  bitter  delight  at  the  prospect  of  the  de- 
struction Amedee  would  inflict  upon  it.  Mr.  Grady 
was  furious  wkh  his  godson  and  with  Hugh  Sullivan. 
They  had  beaten  him,  routed  him,  triumphed  over 
him,  and  now  would  not  so  much  as  admit  they  had 
fought  with  him. 


t87 

"A>,  thin  the  day'il  cotne,"  saH  Mr.  Grady,  "whin 
I'll  be  sought  for  to  capthur  this  divil  in  wan  ov  his 
tantrums,  an'  I  won't  be  found." 

A  remark  that  meant  that  Saranac  would  be  at  the 
mercy  of  the  demoniac  until  he  came  to  his  senses  or 
was  shot ;  Mr.  Grady  would  not  lift  a  hand  to  save 
an  ungrateful  people.  While  Tim  stood  watching  the 
store  David  Winthr  'p  came  along. 

*•  I'd  give  something,  Tim  Grady,''  he  said, "  to  know 
why  the  DeLaunays  started  this  young  rascal  in  business 
They're  not  interested  in  it,  are  they,  do  you  know  ? ' 

"  They're  not,"  replied  Tim,  "  an'  if  ye  want  to 
know  why  they've  done  so  much  for  Amedee,  I'll  tell 
ye  for  n.ithin';  an'  ye  can  save  yer  few  dollais. 
Amerce  says  ould  DeLaunay  shtole  the  money  that 
was  laid  to  his  door  ;  which  ye  know  already ;  but 
can  ye  prove  it  ?  Ye  know  ye  can't.  'Pon  me  sowl 
I  don  t  belave  a  word  of  it.  There's  somethin'  deeper 
in  the  thing.  That  divil  knows  a  secret  maybe  that 
won't  stan'  daylight  an'  the  DeLaunays  have  to  help 
him.  But  the  shtore'll  go  down.  Not  a  sowl  that  I 
know  will  thrade  in  it.  Whin  there's  no  thrade, 
there's  no  money.  Whin  there's  no  money  Amedee 
will  take  to  dhrink  again,  an'  smash  everything  to  bits 
Mind  I'm  tellin'  ye  four  weeks  ahead,  and  ye  can  wit- 
ness I  tould  ye." 

"  Bad  trade-prophet,''  said  Winthrop. 

"I'm  no  prophet,"  said  Tim.  "I'm  tellin'  what  I 
see,  an  what  you  kin  see  if  ye  want  to." 

"  Humbug !  Tell  me  something  I  can't  know  my- 
self or  find  out,  or  guess  at.  Any  man  can  do  what 
you're  doing,  Tim  Grady,  and  you  needn't  pride  your 
self  on  your  superior  fore^'ght." 


i88 

Grady  retired  muttering.  He  had  become  in  one 
fashion  an  enemy  of  his  godson.  The  failure  of 
Amede'e  to  remain  in  Texas  and  die  of  drink,  his 
success  in  resisting  Saranac  public  opinion  which  Tim 
had  manufactured,  and  finally  his  impudent  bid  for 
the  patronage  of  decent  people  to  maintain  him  in 
business  had  seriously  irritated  the  old  man,  whose 
forecasts  had  thus  been  all  overthrown.  The  more 
irequent  his  failures  in  prophecy  the  more  violently 
he  prophesied  Amede'e  must  take  to  drink  before  a 
month,  th'ow  his  wares  into  the  street,  and  a  third 
time  disgrace  himself  in  the  eyes  of  Saranac.  He  was 
bent  on  bringing  the  disaster  to  pass.  He  would  not 
have  admitted  such  a  charge  even  to  himself,  and 
been  horrified  to  hear  it  from  others.  He  argued  it 
was  a  mistake  to  let  Amedee  escape  from  Texas,  and 
a  danger  to  keep  him  in  Saranac.  Good  sense  and 
chaiisy  required  that  so  hopeless  a  case  be  returned 
to  the  place  of  his  exile  ;  to  bring  this  about  the  new 
store  must  prove  a  failure  ;  Mr.  Grady  was  ready  to 
do  all  in  his  power  to  make  it  a  failure.  He  succeeded 
fairly.  Saranac  agreed  with  him  that  Amedee  was  a 
hopeless  case,  impudent,  and  untrustworthy.  It  could 
not  resist  a  natural  curiosity  to  see  the  new  pUce  and 
its  wild  proprietor.  For  a  week  the  store  was  thronged 
with  the  curious,  not  with  buyers.  Then  a  great 
desolation  fell  upon  it,  and  for  days  not  a  shopper  en- 
tered, with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Sullivan  and  a  few 
others  Mr.  Grady  kept  tally  of  these,  and  reported 
to  his  cronies.  He  ventured  even  to  remonstrate 
with  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  was  roundly  scolded  far  his 
impertinence.  Amedee  was  not  at  all  discouraged  un- 
til the  cause  of  his  ill-success  became  known.  It  was 


189 

natural  a  new  business  should  be  slow  in  developing. 
Six  months  was  not  too  long  to  wait  for  a  small  trade, 
and  he  was  happy.  Bat  it  daunted  him  to  hear  at 
last  that  Saranac  had  made  up  its  mind  to  avoid  him 
because  he  \\  as  a  suspicious  and  dangerous  character, 
and  should  be  in  Texas.  This  was  not  giving  a  man 
a  fair  chance.  He  consulted  with  John  Winthrop, 
and  that  shrewd  gentleman  put  him  on  the  track  of 
Tim  Grady.  The  situation  had  in  the  end  to  be  rut 
be  ore  Mrs.  DeLaunay. 

"  The  town  will  not  go  to  Amedee,"  said  she. 
"  Then  let  Amedee  go  to  the  town." 

But  Tim  Grady  was  in  the  way  for  both  parties. 
Was  Mr.  Grady  unmanageable?  He  was.  Then  let 
me  think  for  a  few  days,  said  she. 

It  looked  as  if  Mr.  Graly  would  have  to  be  concili- 
ated, and  for  a  moment  she  might  have  entertained 
this  scheme ;  but  only  for  a  moment ;  since  on  inquiry 
she  found  that  Mr.  Grady  was  acting  from  a  spirit  of 
hateful  pride,  ambitious  to  have  his  opinion  of  Ame- 
dee prevail  in  Saranac  in  spite  of  Hugh  Sullivan  and 
the  great  family  of  the  town.  Then  Regina's  mother 
resolved  that  the  exile  should  be  exalted  and  the  piti- 
less godfather  disgraced  in  the  same  moment  before 
all  Saranac ;  and  it  was  to  be  a  social  and  official 
occasion  which  would  thus  set  the  seal  of  honor  upon 
one,  of  shame  upon  the  other.  The  means  were  ready 
to  her  hand.  She  invited  her  meek  husband  to  ride 
with  her  one  morning.  It  was  early  in  September, 
and  very  pleasant  weather;  very  pleasant  indeed, 
Saranac  folk  thought,  to  see  the  pair  out  together 
*lone.  They  drove  to  the  priest's  house  and  entered, 
DeLaunay  being  most  uneasy  since  he  did  not  doubt 


she  would  insist  on  his  going  to  confession,  for  the 
first  time  in  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  a  favor,"  Mrs.  DeLaunay 
said,  u  and  I  ask  it  on  the  strength  of  my  husband 
being  in  some  sort  a  Catholic.  I  notice  that  the  Cath- 
olic ladies  raise  money  for  the  Church  by  giving  en- 
tertainments at  their  own  houses.  I  would  like  to 
give  one  in  mine,  and  if  you  consent,  I  promise  you  it 
will  be  the  most  pleasant  and  successful  you  have  ever 
had." 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  priest,  "  but  are  you 
aware  of  all  the  difficulties  in  getting  up  an  affair  of 
this  kind.  Some  people  would  be  ashamed  to  visit  a 
fine  house  and  make  merry  there.  Others  might  re- 
fuse to  help  towards  making  it  a  success.  Others 
again  -" 

"  I  can  assure  you,  Father  McManus,"  she  inter- 
rupted pleasantly,  "  that  the  whole  town  will  be  there. 
The  poorest  will  be  supplied  with  courage.  Mr.  De- 
Launay  is  a  politician,  and  can  win  the  heart  of  the 
district  voter.  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  women  but  that 
I  can  capture  them.  Give  me  carte  blanche9vRn.o\mcQ  it 
from  the  altar  Sunday  for  Tuesday  night,  and  leave  us 
to  do  all  the  rest." 

"  There  will  be  no  failure,"  said  Mr.  DeLaunay 
with  a  little  warmth. 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  priest.  "  I  give  you  all  powers 
for  the  affair.  Such  help  comes  in  a  good  time,  and 
we  cannot  be  too  thankful  for  it." 

"  Did  you  not  feel  somewhat  Catholic,"  said  Mrs. 
DeLaunay  as  they  drove  off,  "  in  having  your  wife 
thus  volunteer  to  do  the  church  some  service  ?" 

"  I've  lost  interest  in  the  church,"  growled  he,  "  it's 


igi 

a  corporation   of  big   promises   and  small  perform- 
ances." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  she  answered,  with  such  a  look 
at  him  that  he  wilted.  She  seemed  to  take  him  as 
one  cf  the  performances. 

A  murmur  went  through  Saranac  when  it  was  made 
known  that  the  first  social  of  the  season  would  be 
held  at  the  grand  mansion.  Several  democratic  noses 
were  turned  heavenward  at  the  mere  mention  ot  it, 
but  »hey  soon  turned  to  the  horizon  aram.  The 
affair  was  rot  to  be  confined  to  kid  gloves  and  silk 
stockings,  but  to  be  as  open  as  a  town-meeting  or  a 
picnic  In  her  twenty  years  of  residence  in  Saranac 
Mrs.  D'Launay  had  never  been  seen  on  the  streets 
so  often  as  on  the  five  days  before  Sunday.  She  vis- 
ited every  family  in  the  place,  an  i  secured  not  only 
donations  of  cake,  pie,  ice  cream,  sugar,  milk,  coffee, 
meats,  and  o'her  delicacies,  but  the  promises  of  the 
matrons  and  their  daughters  to  attend  without  fail,  it 
they  stayed  no  longer  than  a  half-hour.  She  made 
up  her  managing  committees  from  all  classes  of  wo- 
men, and  so  mingled  them  that  Mrs.  DeKoven's  wash- 
woman was  that  lady's  chief  assistant  in  managing  the 
ice  cream  department  Everybody  that  was  anybody 
had  an  office,  and  Regina  was  authorized  to  organize 
a  minstrel  show  with  the  aid  of  the  nat've  young  men 
Mr.  DeLaunay  secured  the  man  to  decorate  and  illu- 
minate the  grounds,  and  with  great  earnestness  in- 
vited every  voter  he  knew  to  attend.  The  bunting 
was  bought  of  Amedee,  and  the  DeLaunay  carriage 
stopped  at  his  store  many  times  a  day.  In  fact  but 
for  this  incident  he  would  have  been  forgotten  in  the 
excitement  which  prevailed.  Mrs.  DeLaunay  took 


192 

up  Tina  Grady  in  her  carriage  one  day,  and  drove 
him  through  the  streets  as  if  he  were  a  prime  minister 
and  she  the  queen.  He  helped  her  out  and  helped 
her  in  with  the  airs  ot  a  Kerry  cavalier  of  the  last 
century  ;  and  she  talked  and  smiled  him  into  such  a 
mood  that  he  would  have  fought  the  constable  for  her. 
She  made  him  the  master  of  the  revels  for  the  social, 
or  in  Saranac  language,  the  "  bouncer." 

"You  know  everyone,"  said  she,  "and  you  must 
know  how  to  manage  them  if  they  get  troublesome 
Now,  if  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  take  charge  of  the 
whole  place  after  seven  o'clock,  it  would  be  such  aa 
honor  to  us." 

Mr.  Grady  fairly  swelled  with  admiration  of  him- 
self as  this  distinction  was  conferred  on  him.  He 
knew  it  was  more  than  deserved.  He  felt  that  in  all 
the  town  not  a  man  could  be  compared  with  him  for 
knowledge  of  ancient  history  and  local  characters, 
nevertheless  he  bowed  to  the  superior  discernment 
and  wonderful  gifts  of  this  woman,  so  ex:lusive,  so 
proud,  so  stern,  who  recognized  in  him  the  proper 
person  to  keep  order  in  the  grounds,  to  secure  dignity 
and  decorum  for  the  festival,  to — to — but  his  imagina- 
tion failed  to  discover  anything  more  to  do  for  Mrs. 
DeLaunay's  social 

The  preparations  were  at  last  completed  to  the 
infinite  relief  of  Regina  and  her  father,  long  since 
wearied  by  the  work  assigned  them.  The  Mistress 
was  still  as  fresh  as  at  the  beginning.  It  was  like 
rehearsing  a  play,  only  more  interesting  In  seven 
days  she  had  learned  more  of  Saranac  than  in  twenty 
years  of  residence,  a  fact  which  determined  her  to  make 
u  the  social  "  a  feature  of  her  life  every  year.  Her 


193 

tact  was  great,  her  manner  winning  ;  she  had  her  own 
way  in  all  the  quiet  bickering  that  took  place  among 
the  women,  settling  all  difficulties  with  ease  and  suc- 
cess. The  entire  town  was  interested  in  her  festival, 
for  she  had  made  it  the  people's.  After  all  it  was  only 
the  setting  of  the  scene  which  had  so  far  been  pre- 
pared. The  properties  had  been  gathered.  The 
actors  were  yet  to  appear,  and  the  play  to  be  pro- 
duced. She  smiled  grimly  in  advance  at  Tim  Grady's 
coming  humiliation,  which  to  her  mind  was  pleasanter 
than  the  elevation  of  Amedee.  Mr.  Grady  was  at  the 
gate  before  seven,  and  saw  to  the  lighting  of  the  lan- 
terns. He  was  knocked  about  some  by  the  men, 
who  had  not  hea^d  of  his  appointment  to  the  boun- 
cership,  and  resented  his  dictatioD.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  he  could  persuade  anyone  of  his  authority, 
and  then  the  place  was  so  crowded  that  authority 
amounted  to  nothing. 

It  was  a  lovely  night  of  course,  for  Mrs.  DeLaunay 
had  arranged  that  also,  as  she  informed  her  husband. 
The  lanterns  were  thick  enough  to  make  the  lawn 
bright  as  day.  The  grand  house  was  thrown  open  to 
all  that  came,  and  tents  scattered  about  the  grounds 
held  entertainments  of  various  sorts  for  the  guests. 
In  one  was  a  Punch-and-Judy  show,  in  another  re- 
freshments, a  third  was  for  dancing,  and  here  the 
minstrels  were  to  perform  under  Regina's  manage- 
ment. Tim  Grady  rushed  about  among  these  places 
with  great  zeal,  and  displayed  his  authority  to  the  pro- 
prietors. He  was  everywhere  received  with  doubt, 
denial,  and  rebuff.  He  was  not  discouraged  for 
Saranac  crowds  were  ready  with  rebuffs.  His  appeal 
to  Mrs.  DeLaunay  for  moral  support  was  answered  by 


194 

an  order  from  her  to  John  Winthrop  to  see  t>>at 
everyone  acknowledged  Tim.  She  was  in  earnest, 
but  Saranac  perversely  took  Grady's  appointment  as 
a  joke,  and  made  the  old  gentleman  perspire  that 
evening  as  never  before.  Only  the  most  indifferent 
or  the  feeble  ancknowledged  his  authority,  and  the 
rows  that  occurred  in  consequence  were  numerous 
?nd  funny. 

The  lady  of  the  house  spent  the  early  evening  re 
ceiving  her  guests  in  the  drawing  room,  to  whici 
ushers  conducted  every  person  that  came,  Mrs.  De- 
Launay  assisted,  so  did  Regina  and  the  priest  of  the 
parish.  When  Amed^e  appeared  the  mistress  kept 
him  at  her  left  hand  while  the  reception  was  going  on, 
to  the  astonishment  of  Saranac.  To  appear  before 
this  group  at  one  end  of  the  long  room  was  very  try 
ing  for  the  farmers'  boys  and  the  railroad  men,  but 
its  novelty  and  distinction  gave  them  courage:  and 
very  proud  they  were  of  the  feat  when  they  reached 
the  lawn  again.  No  one  forgot  the  spectacle  of 
Am.'d^e  LaRoche  standing  with  these  distinguished 
people,  and  suffering  nothing,  rather  gaining  by  the 
contrast.  His  appearance  was  striking  yet  gentleman- 
ly. He  was  at  ease  with  those  who  had  wronged 
him.  Saranac  admired  the  scene.  And  the  exile 
went  up  a  shade  in  common  estimation.  It  was 
his  festival  as  his  patroness  intended.  He  was  the 
star  for  whom  the  scenery  and  the  beautiful  properties 
and  the  fine  company,  and  the  splendid  audience  had 
been  provided  ;  Mrs  DeLaunay  was  the  good  genius, 
and  Tim  Grady  was  the  villain  whose  downfall  was  to 
be  compassed  that  night.  The  first  act  ended  with 
the  reception.  Certainly  no  first  act  ever  presented  a 


'95 

star  so  thoroughly  to  an  audience  as  the  reception  did 
Amede'e.  Every  soul  in  the  place  talked  for  ten 
minutes  of  the  scene  in  the  drawing-room.  Ten 
minutes  is  a  long  time  for  one  subject  at  a  lawn 
party. 

The  leading  actors  were  well  drilled,  so  that  the 
first  impression  was  preserved  and  deepened.  The 
reception  ended,  Father  McManus  showed  Amede'e 
over  the  grounds  at  Mrs.  DeLaunay's  request  and  to 
his  own  delight,  for  Amedee  was  telling  him  interest- 
ing stories  of  Texan  life.  The  whole  world  saw  the 
priest  and  the  exile  arm  in  arm  for  a  good  half-hour, 
saw  them  visit  the  shows  and  eat  ice  cream  together, 
saw  the  priest  laugh  his  heartiest  at  the  bright  stories 
Amedee  was  telling.  At  the  end  of  their  tour  in  some 
delightful  way  Amedee  was  transferred  to  the  charge 
of  Regina,  and  brought  to  the  card-room  to  take  part 
in  a  game  of  progressive  euchre  with  three  tables. 
The  whole  Saranac  world  passed  the  card  room 
not  excepting  Tim  Grady,  already  quite  exhausted 
with  his  efforts  to  be  seen  on  the  occasion.  He  had 
heard  of  the  reception  srene,  he  had  met  the  priest 
in  Amedee's  company,  and  this  third  view  of  his  god- 
son's glory  was  gall  to  his  soul.  He  stood  on  the 
pravel  walk  and  watched  the  players  at  the  window. 
Regina's  voice  came  floating  out  to  him  like  the  tones 
of  a  flute. 

"  You  play  remarkably  well,  Mr.  LaRoche.  How 
fortunate  to  have  you  for  a  partner." 

"He  ought  to  play  well,"  growled  Tim,  "after 
twenty  years  gamblin'  wid  other  people's  money.  He'll 
chate  the  eyes  out  ov  'em,  if  they  don't  take  care." 

A  slippery-looking   young  man  just  then  entered 


the  card-room,  and  sat  down  quietly.  It  was  Mr. 
Grady's  opportunity,  and  he  ruched  in  after  him. 

"  Here,  you,"  he  said  in  a  tone  that  caught  atten- 
tion from  all  present,  "  this  is  no  place  for  the  likes  ov 
yez.  Be  aff  now,  if  ye  want  to  keep  out  o'  jail  to- 
night." 

The  slippery  young  man  reclined  defiantly  in  his 
chair,  and  smiled  at  this  order.  Mr.  Grady  made  a 
grab  for  his  shoulder,  but  found  his  own  arms  seized 
from  behind,  and  himself  placed  as  courteously  as 
rapidity  would  permit  on  the  gravel  wa^  without. 

"No  rows  here,  Grady,"  said  the  gentlemen  as  they 
left  him.  He  looked  ba^k  at  the  card-room.  The 
game  was  going  on  placidly,  and  the  slippery- looking 
young  man  had  vanished.  Mr  Grady  actually  swore 
at  his  go  'son,  and  the  few  spectators  laughed ! 

At  half  past  nine  the  minstrels  gave  their  perform- 
ance in  the  dancing  tent.  Six  hundred  people  found 
seats  in  it,  somewhat  crowded  of  course.  An  en- 
closure at  one  side  of  the  orchestra  was  the  box  for 
distinguished  visitors.  A  minute  before  the  curtain 
rose  Mrs.  DeLaunay  and  Father  McManus  walked 
down  the  aisle,  and  took  their  seats  in  the  box.  A 
moment  later  Mr.  DeLaunay  and  Amede'e  followed 
them.  Dumb  show  has  its  effect  on  the  crowd.  The 
lady  bowed  to  Amede'e,  and  the  priest  offered  Mr. 
DeLaunay  his  seat.  It  was  re'used  with  a  bow,  while 
Amedee  pushed  forward  an  arm  chair  Again  Mr. 
DeLaunay  refused,  and  insisted  on  Amedee  takirg  it 
himself.  Saranac  held  its  breath,  and  then  murmured 
in  approbation.  Mr.  Grady  snorted,  and  impelled  by 
the  evil  spirit  which  annoyed  him  all  that  evening 
seized  a  small  boy  eating  offensive  peanuts  and  tried 


197 

to  eject  him.  The  boy  howled  and  held  to  his  seat, 
there  was  some  hustling  in  the  crowd  for  an  instant, 
and  then  Mr  Gra  ly  was  elbowed  and  pushed  into  the 
open  air  without  tl  e  boy  and  without  a  chance  of  get- 
ting back  into  the  tent.  It  was  exasperating  to  say 
the  least.  He  revenged  himself  upon,  the  few  in- 
offensive souls  still  wandering  about  the  grounds. 

The  minstrel  show  ended  in  a  short  half  hour,  and 
then  the  dancing  began.  In  those  days  the  Lancers 
was  a  dance  rarely  seen  in  country  towns,  where  it  is 
now  as  comrron  as  the  cotillion.  It  was  the  first 
dance  on  the  programme  and  only  eight  persons  ap- 
T  eared  to  execute  it.  Saranac  people  were  excited 
over  its  performance,  and,  in  the  merry  confusion  that 
preceded  the  clearing  of  the  floor,  discussed  it  earnestly. 
Mr.  Grady,  seeking  an  opportunity  to  distinguish 
himself,  joined  in  the  talk  with  a  view  to  decry  the 
Lancers.  The  experienced  laughed  at  his  reasoning 
and  his  statements. 

"  'Tis  nothin'  to  the  minuet,"  he  declared.  "  An' 
I'll  lave  it  to  Mrs.  DeLaunay,  who  med  ire  boss  o' 
the  grounds  this  night,  if  it  ain't  so." 

"  Who's  goin'  to  trouble  the  lady  about  such  a 
thing,"  said  one.  "  LaRoche  can  tell  us-  He's  one 
of  the  eight  for  the  Lancers." 

"  What's  that,"  exclaimed  Tim  in  a  falsetto  of  an- 
guish and  surprise  Amed6e  LaRoche  dance  any- 
thin'  but  a  Virginia  reel  I  Wan  o'  the  eight !  What 
lies  yez  can  be  invintin'." 

"  See  for  yourself,"  said  the  other,  as  the  floor  be- 
gan to  clear  for  the  dancing.  Mr.  Grady  looked  and 
sa«v  Amedee  in  a  group  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room. 
The  sight  made  him  sick  to  despair,  and  without  con- 


198 

sidering  the  risk  he  ran  and  the  attention  he  drew 
upon  himself,  he  stumped  up  to  Mrs.  DeLaunay  in 
high  indignation  and  cried  out  so  that  all  heard  and 
grew  still  to  listen : 

"  Is  it  for  you,  ma'am,  to  demane  yourself  by  lettin' 
that  boccagh,  LaRoche,  into  the  same  set  with  ye  be- 
fore the  whole  world,  -whin  I  an'  every  wan  knows  he 
can't  put  one  shtep  behind  the  other  in—" 

Mrs.  DeLaunay  looked  at  him  an  instant  coldly, 
then  turned  her  back  to  him  and  walked  away  as  only 
an  adept  in  stage  action  could  do  such  a  thing,  while 
at  the  same  moment  two  ushers  fell  upon  him  and 
were  prevented  from  removing  him  on'y  by  the  order 
of  the  priest  standing  near. 

"  Mr.  Grady,"  said  the  pastor  severely,  heard  by  all 
present,  "  you  have  forgotten  the  first  principles  of 
gentlemanliness  by  this  conduct.  You  have  insulted 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  ard  openly  attacked  one  of 
her  guests,  a  gentleman  whom  we  honor,  and  whose 
presence  here  is  a  pleasure  to  all.  There  is  nothing 
you  can  do  more  agreeable  to  the  guests  than  to  leave 
at  once  ;  don't  delay  to  make  apologies  for  they  are 
not  desired." 

Mr.  Tim  Gradv  was  unable  to  reply,  and  as  before 
he  was  led  rapidly  away  by  the  ushers  and  placed  on 
the  street  this  time  with  his  face  to  the  town.  He 
stood  there  some  minutes  weeping  over  his  humilia- 
tion. The  sound  of  music  came  out  lo  him  Lke  a 
mocking  spirit.  He  was  on  the  road,  while  his  worth- 
less godson  was  once  more  astonishing  Saranac  folk 
by  leading  the  Lancers  with  Mrs  DeLaunay  for  a  part- 
ner. Who  would  believe  it  ?  That  this  broken  down 
and  riotous  Texan  could  dress,  comport  himself,  and 


199 

dance  as  tastefully  and  gracefully  as  the  Saranac  aris- 
tocracy !  Mr.  Gracly  went  home  filled  with  bitter- 
ness. The  next  day  the  town  would  ring  with  the 
story  of  his  humiliations,  and  with  praise  of  his  god- 
son. Why,  if  this  lawn  party,  intended  to  aid  the 
treasury  of  the  parish,  had  been  specially  arranged 
for  his  shame  and  Amedee's  honor  it  could  not  have 
been  managed  better.  He  never  knew  how  exactly 
this  guess  hit  the  truth,  or  how  gaily  Mrs  DeLaunay 
went  through  the  Lancers  with  her  Texan  partner, 
certain  that  her  play  was  a  great  success ;  that 
the  minor  villain  had  been  punished  in  measure, 
the  major  villian,  her  husband,  properly  punished,  and 
justice  in  small  part  done  to  the  gentle  and  unfor- 
tunate exile ! 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE   WEDDING. 

Madame  LaRoche  was  a  practical  woman,  and 
could  transact  domestic  business  with  speed  and 
profit.  Blessed  with  a  strong  mind,  a  vigorous  faith, 
and  a  Canadian  training  she  never  saw  reason  for 
losing  courage,  never  lost  a  penny  in  trade,  and 
worked  in  her  seventy- fifth  year  with  as  firm  hope  and 
wide  horizon  as  if  she  were  but  fifty.  While  Amedee 
and  Mrs.  DeLaunay  were  striving  to  get  a  good 
trade  for  the  new  business,  Madame  had  quietly  and 
innocently  prepared  a  scheme  which  brought  her  son 
again  into  the  public  eye  under  most  favorable  con- 
ditions. He  did  not  need  iurther  attention  after  the 
lawn  party.  Saranac  flocked  to  his  store  with  cash 
and  sympathy,  and  laughed  at  the  extinction  of  Tim 


200 

Grady,  now  in  the  retirement  cf  a  sick  room  to  avoid 
public  ridicule.  Madame's  scheme  was  purely  do- 
mestic. Amedee  must  wed  He  was  un  vteux 
garfon,  a  character  not  respected  among  Canadians  ; 
he  was  still  in  danger  from  his  drinking  habits ;  a 
good  wife  was  necessary  for  him,  to  whose  loving  care 
and  sweet  companionship  he  might  be  safely  intrusted 
From  the  moment  Captain  Sullivan  had  made  Ame- 
dee's  stay  in  Saranac  a  certainty  Madame  had 
continued  her  efforts  to  find  for  her  boy  a  suitable 
wife. 

She  had  many  difficulties  to  contend  with.  Her 
son  was  in  consumption,  had  a  bad  record,  had  dis- 
graced himself  twice  in  Saranac.  and  was  not  then 
doing  well  in  business.  Mr.  Narcisse  McCarthy,  for 
whose  daughter  she  asked  most  humbly,  stated  these 
objections  very  forcibly,  and  refused  to  consider  the 
matter.  But  Madame,  having  a  hold  on  Mr.  Mc- 
Carthy, persisted. 

"It  is  clear,"  she  said,  "that  Amede"e  will  live 
many  years,  if  he  has  a  good  wife  to  care  for  him.  It 
is  not  quick  consumption  he  has  MonDieu,  no! 
If  it  were,  he  would  have  been  dead  long  ago.  He 
never  stole  the  money,  as  was  said.  Mr.  DeLaunay 
himself  declared  him  innocent.  If  he  drank  a  little 
once,  he  is  now  quite  temperate ;  and  how  many, 
even  you,  yourself,  get  drunk  in  \  uMic  and  lose  noth- 
ing by  it,  when  they  a^e  usually  temperate  men.  The 
business  is  poor  just  now,  I  know.  But  is  it  not  only 
a  commencement  ?  What  will  it  not  be  a  year  from 
this.  Then  do  not  fo  get,  Mr.  McCarthy,  that  Eliza 
beth  is  thirty  three,  and  her  chance  of  marriage  is 
gone." 


201 

"  We  Irish  don't  mind  that,''  said  Monsieur  Me 
Carthy. 

"  Then  they  love  each  other,"  said  Madame. 

"  Truly,"  he  replied,  "  since  his  return  she  has  wept 
often,  and  lost  her  appetite  and  sleep.  After  re- 
fusing everyone  for  fifteen  years,  for  his  sake,  no  won- 
der she  should  be  excited.  But  they  have  not  met, 
and  he  has  not  asked  for  her  " 

"  He  thinks  she  is  married,"  said  Madame.  "  Poor 
faithful  girl !  will  you  for  scruples  leave  her  heartsore 
all  her  life." 

Monsieur  McCarthy  shook  his  head  soberly  and 
refuped  to  talk  further  about  the  matter  until  he 
could  think  over  it.  He  was  by  birth  and  training  a 
Canadian,  but  his  Irish  mother  had  died  in  the  cabin 
of  a  charitable  hab  tant,  and  left  him  to  be  baptized 
and  cared  for  by  the  same  kind-hearted  souls.  They 
named  him  Narcisse,  gave  him  a  place  among  their 
own  children,  and  loved  le  petit  Irlandais  all  the 
more  that  he  was  of  another  race  and  an  orphan. 
Narcisse  was  therefore  as  much  a  Canadian  as 
Madame,  and  while  rejoicing  in  his  paternity  loved 
and  practiced  the  customs  in  which  he  had  been  edu- 
cated ;  nor  was  he  one  whit  less  eager  than  Madame 
to  turn  every  circumstance  to  his  daughter's  profit  in 
the  negotiations  which  now  began.  He  had  watched 
Am e dee  carefully  since  his  entrance  into  business 
and  he  had  come  to  some  conclusions.  The  ex'le 
had  a  business  that  in  time  would  pay  handsomely,  and 
his  daughter  had  a  talent  for  it ;  Amedee  was  likely  to 
remain  a  sober  man  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  and  if 
consumption  finally  carried  him  off,  it  would  not  be 
until  his  wife  had  become  acquainted  with  the  busi- 


2O2 

ness  and  had  secured  from  him  a  will  in  her  favor. 
His  objections  to  Madame  were,  therefore,  only  the 
necessary  preliminaries  to  large  demands  on  behalf  of 
his  daughter,  and  he  speedily  allowed  himself  to  be 
inveigled  into  her  kitchen  for  another  talk  on  the 
union  of  the  two  houses. 

"  How  is  Mademoiselle  Elizabeth,"  said  Madame, 
with  an  assumption  of  calmness  she  did  not  feel,  for 
AmedeVs  business  was  still  doing  poorly. 

"I  need  not  tell  you,"  replied  Monsieur  McCarthy 
sadly,  "I  am  even  getting  anxious  about  her.  She 
still  weeps  in  secret.  She  cannot  eat  or  sleep,  and 
my  wife  is  alarmed;  only  yesterday  we  thought  of 
sending  her  to  our  son  in  Wisconsin." 

"  Heavens,"  cried  Madame,  "  have  you  the  heart  ? 
and  you  knowing  why  she  grieves  so!  These  two 
were  made  for  each  other.  It  is  very  clear.  After 
fifteen  years  God  brings  them  together  again.  It 
would  be  a  sin  to  separate  them.  If  you  do,  she  will 
surely  die." 

"It  would  be  awful  to  lose  her,"  said  Monsieur 
McCarthy,  who  had  not  the  slightest  fear  of  such  a 
calamity,  "and  we  had  arranged  to  leave  her  the 
house  and  the  bank-book  when  Goi  took  us.  If  she 
should  die,  it  would  all  go  to  the  boys,  and  they  have 
enough  except  that  good  for-nothing  Tom,  who  swal 
lows  money  like  a  whale.  He  can  never  g* t  enough. 
But  until  we  die  El:zabeth  has  nothing  but  three  hun- 
dred dollars  her  aunt  gave  her." 

"  And  you  would  provide  the  we  Iding-feast,  would 
you  not?"  said  Madame,  suddenly  perceiving  that 
Monsieur  McCarthy  was  sniffing  at  a  bargain. 

"  Are  we  talking  of  manriage  ?''  he  cried  angrily 


203 

"  What  I  Give  my  daughter  to  a  consumptive,  who 
will  die  in  a  lew  years !  It  is  true  he  has  a  good 
business,  but  a  widow  gets  only  one-third,  the  relatives 
take  the  rest,  unless  there  be  children,  and  when  a 
business  is  broken  up  one  third  is  nothing." 

"True,  but  Amecee  could  make  a  will.  We  want 
nothing.  We  shall  leave  him  what  we  have,  and  fit 
up  his  house  for  him.  Oh,  everything,  Monsieur 
McCarthy,  must  go  to  this  good  EUzibeth,  who  has 
waited  for  my  son  fifteen  years,  and  is  faithful  to  him 
even  after  his  bad  conduct.  You  will  provide  the 
wedding-least,  Monsieur  ?'' 

"  It  is  but  a  trifle,"  he  answered  with  delight.  "But 
how  do  we  kno^r  your  son  wil  Icare  to  marry,  and 
then  to  leave  all  to  his  wife  ?  Tf  his  brothers  should 
hear  of  it,  and  object — " 

"  MOT  sieur  McCarthy,  I  promise  you— oh,  how 
happy  you  have  made  me —  there  shall  be  no  trouble. 
His  brothers  and  sisters  have  nothing  to  do  with 
Amed6e,  —until  now  they  have  been  ashamed  of  him. 
When  the  day  of  the  marrage  comes  he  shall  give 
Elizabeth  a  will  for  her  and  her  children,  I  shall  fit 
up  a  house  for  them,  she  will  bring  him  her  auntie's 
gift,  and  you  will  provide  the  wedding-feast.  Is  it 
agreed,  Monsieur  McCarthy?" 

"  It  is  agreed,"  said  he. 

"  This  is  Saturday,"  continued  Madame.  "  Tues- 
day is  the  lawn- party  at  Madame  DeLaunay's.  Then 
to  morrow  evening  do  you  and  your  wife  and  my  dear 
Elizabeth  ome  here  to  tea.  It  is  LaRoche's  Sunday 
home.  In  one  hour  we  can  arrange  everything.  Ah," 
cried  Madame  rolling  her  eyes  towards  the  little  altar, 
"  the  good  God  is  doing  everything  for  me  like  the 


204 

stories  in  the  books,  which  are  mostly  too  good  to  be 
true." 

"  It  is  indeed  like  a  story,"  said  Monsieur  McCar- 
thy, as  he  went  thoughtfully  homeward. 

It  was  all  arranged  very  prettily.  Coming  home 
from  Mass  on  Sunday  Madame  LaRoche  called  her 
son's  attention  to  two  women  walking  a  few  yards 
ahead  of  them.  They  were  evidently  mother  and 
daughter,  the  former  stout  and  rheumatic,  the  latter 
graceful  in  form,  well-dressed,  and  beyond  her  youth. 
Her  profile,  occasionally  in  view,  showed  a  pensive 
but  cheerful  expression.  Amed6e  did  not  know 
them. 

"  Do  you  not  remember  Elisabeth,"  she  said  in  a 
low  tone. 

He  started,  turned  pale,  then  grew  calm  again  and 
laughed  at  his  own  emotion. 

"She  is  now  married,  I  suppose,"  he  said  care- 
lessly. 

"  She  has  refused  many  offers  these  fifteen  years 
tor  your  sake,  my  son."  He  grew  pale  agam.  "She 
is  still  waiting  for  you,  and  loves  you  enough  to  wed 
with  you." 

He  started  forward,  but  his  mother  held  his  arm, 
alarmed  at  his  great  pallor. 

"Not  here,"  Bhe  said,  "too  many  are  near  and 
there  would  be  a  scene.  To-night  I  have  invited  them 
to  take  tea  with  us.  I  have  spoken  with  her  father, 
and  we  have  managed  everything.  You  have  nothing 
to  do  but  ask  on  your  own  account." 

"  But  why  should  she  think  of  me  a  poor  good-for- 
nothing,"  he  began. 

"She  weeps  every  night  for  you,"  said  his  mother. 


205 

"  She  is  almost  sick  waiting  to  meet  you  and  speak 
to  you.  Never  have  I  known  a  more  faithful  heart ! 
And  she  has  never  spoken  your  name  to  others  since 
you  left." 

"  My  faithful  girl,"  cried  Amed6e,  and  the  silent 
tears  fell  from  his  eyes.  "How  good  God  has  been 
to  me  !  Oh,  that  I  had  a  few  years  to  live  and  thank 
Him  for  His  goodness !  " 

Madame  sighed  and  smiled  together,  as  with  lov- 
ing, furtive  eye  she  studied  the  traces  of  disease  in  his 
face  Prosperity  had  already  removed  them  in  great 
part ;  success  in  business  and  corjugal  love  would 
surely  restore  him  a  few  of  his  lost  years.  In  any  event 
Madame  felt  that  justice  and  mercy  in  full  measure 
had  been  given  to  her,  and  she  left  the  future  to  God. 
A  wedding  in  a  few  weeks  was  a  fact  to  thrill  the 
oldest  heart,  particularly  with  Mons:eur  McCa-thy  so 
generous  as  to  provide  the  wedding  dinner,  and  per- 
mit Elisabeth  to  depart  from  his  house  with  her  three 
hundred  dollars.  What  more  could  un  vieux  gar  (on 
with  Amede'e's  unfortunate  history  expect  or  desire  ! 
The  meeting  of  the  long  parted  lovers  was  simple  and 
touching.  They  shook  hands  politely,  leaving  their 
eyes  to  speak  the  feelings  of  the  heart.  In  a  quiet 
way  Madame  sent  off  her  husband  to  walk  along  the 
shore  with  Monsieur  Narcisse,  and  took  Mrs.  Mc- 
Carthy, an  aggressive  character  who  spoke  patois 
with  a  frightful  brogue,  into  the  best  room  for  a  short 
gossip ;  so  that  no  human  eyes  saw  the  real  meeting 
of  Amedee  and  Elisabeth,  who  were  able  to  take  their 
places  afterward  at  the  tea  table  without  agitation 
and  to  conduct  themselves  like  ordinary  persons. 

When  the  excitement  over  the  lawn  party  had  sub- 


206 

sided  the  news  of  hi?  daughter's  approaching  mar- 
riage was  sert  forth  by  Morsieur  Narcisse.  In  a 
measure  her  failure  to  wed  had  irritated  him  more 
than  her  devotion  1o  a  defaulter;  he  took  the  greater 
plearure  in  announcing  her  nuptials  with  the  owner 
of  a  handsome  business  and  the  most  popular  man  in 
in  to<vn  Captain  LaRorhe  spread  the  news  among 
his  friends  and  relatives. 

'Old  McCarthy's  daughter,"  he  said  to  his  rela- 
tions ;  "  she  will  have  everything  her  father  and 
mother  leave  behind." 

To  his  American  friends  who  smilingly  observed 
"  She's  Irish,  isn't  she  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,''  he  answered  complacently,  "  Amede"e 
is  to  marry  'HT  Irish  girl." 

This  fact  was  a  source  of  pride  to  him,  since  not 
even  the  cleverest  Canadian  boys  could  overcome, 
except  in  rare  instances,  Irish  distrust  of  Canadian 
nature.  Amedee  himself  bore  the  news  to  his 
patroness,  and  the  invitation  to  attend  the  wedding 
at  the  church. 

"  Why  not  at  the  house  too,"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  afraid  our  customs  would  hardly  suit  your 
tastes,"  he  replied  frankly. 

"  I  shall  invite  myself  then,  and  if  the  bride  has  no 
objections  Retina  shall  be  second  bridesmaid.  By 
the  way  I  hope  you  have  chosen  one  who  will  be  an 
ornament  to  your  new  business." 

"  It  was  all  very  sudden,"  he  explained.  "Sunday 
evening  my  mother  arranged  the  affair,  and  I  had  no 
time  to  consult  you.  It  is  an  oM  sffair.  I  was  en- 
g"ged  to  her  before  I  went  to  Texas,  but  I  gave  her  up 
then,  and  supposed  she  had  married  long  ago.  Only 


207 

Sunday  morning  I  heard  she  was  still  unmarried  on  my 
account.  We  are  to  be  married  next  Wednesday." 

"Charming,"  said  Mrs.  DeLaunay.  "No  romance 
could  have  ended  more  properly.  You  are  really  a 
wonderful  man,  Amedee  LaRoche,  in  the  gift  you 
possess  of  surprising  and  delighting  your  friends.  But 
this  dear  girl — Genevieve — " 

"  Elizabeth,"  he  corrected, 

•'  Elizabeth  Rosette,  I  suppose—" 

"  McCarthy." 

"  Oh !  *  ell,  that's  better.    Her  looks  now,  I  trust  — " 

"  She  is  old  waiting  for  me,"  he  said  drawing  a 
packet  from  his  bosom  ;  "but  this  is  how  slie  looked 
fifteen  years  a,:o,  and  this  is  her  appearance  now  " 

The  lady  examined  the  photographs  with  interest. 

"Better  an  1  better,"  she  said,  "I  shall  love  that 
girl.  I  must  borrow  those  for  a  few  hours  to  show 
them  to  my  daughter.  How  is  the  business  these 
two  days." 

•'  Simply  wonderful !  Since  the  lawn-party  every- 
thing has  changed." 

"  Do  you  feel  now  that  we  are  doing  a  little  to 
make  up  for  those  awful  years  you  spent  in  Texas  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  you  could  do  more.  Texas  seems 
like  a  bad  dream  now  a-days." 

"  You  are  easily  satisfied,"  she  said.  "  Some  na- 
tures— "  she  was  thinking  of  her  own — "  would  not 
take  any  reparation  short  of — " 

She  did  not  care  to  put  the  idea  of  revenge  in  his 
mind  by  finishing  with  u  an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for 
for  a  tooth,"  but  he  understood  the  ellipsis  and  said : 

"  We  cannot  be  less  kind  than  God,  who  is  content 
with  reparation." 

"  That  is  a  noble  thought,"  she  answered  in  bid- 


208 

dirg  him  good  morning ;  and  she  repeated  the  saying 
toRegina,  who  received  it  and  the  news  of  AmedeVs 
marriage  coldly.  Against  acting  as  bridesmaid  she 
protested  mildly. 

<:  Really,  mamma,  you  are  making  us  very  singular 
by  your  petting  of  this  man.  I  wish  you  would  rot 
require  me  to  parade  so  often  in  his  company.  We 
cannot  keep  it  up,  though  you  may." 

"  After  the  petting  your  father  gave  him  for  fifteen 
years,  you  need  not  fear  he  will  be  spoiled,"  was  the 
sharp  reply.  "  Nor  will  people  call  your  parad.ng  as 
singular  as  your  willingness  to  keep  an  innocent  man 
out  of  his  rights  forever." 

The  tears  rushed  from  the  girl's  eyes,  for  the  plain 
words  cut  deeply  into  her  pride.  She  had  been  guilty 
of  this  sin. 

"  Now  it  happens  that  Elizabeth  McCarthy  is  a 
very  nice  and  refined  creature,  whose  marriage  will 
end  a  real  romance ;  so  that  you  will  do  yourself 
honor  by  being  her  bridesmaid.  Then  John  Win- 
throp  is  to  be  chief  usher,  and  Captain  Sullivan  best 
man.  Your  papa  will  be  my  escort,  and  some  wealthy 
friends  of  the  old  pilot  are  to  be  present.  You  will 
be  surrounded  by  your  own  atmosphere,  Regina,  and 
the  plebeian  air  will  not  reach  you." 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  obey,  but  the  dicta- 
torial mistress  was  not  to  have  the  pleasure  of  her 
husband's  escoit  to  the  church;  he  had  heird  the 
brief  talk  with  Regina,  and  that  afternoon  stole  away 
to  Montreal  on  an  evening  train,  determined  at  any 
cost  to  humble  himself  no  more  before  Amed£e.  Mrs. 
DeLaunay  felt  the  more  bound  to  torture  her  daugh- 
ter for  his  absence. 


209 

Of  the  wedding  Regina  remembered  nothing  but 
the  feast.  She  never  forgot  that  groaning  board. 
Everything  was  put  on  the  table  a<  once,  although 
the  order  of  courses  was  strictly  observed.  The  pa- 
rents of  the  bride  and  groom,  whose  plates  Regina 
could  not  but  see,  filled  their  dishes  with  potatoes, 
cabbage,  turkey,  dressing,  cranberry  sauce,  mashed 
turnips,  and  gravy;  renewed  the  supply;  ate  apple- 
pie  and  cream-pudding  in  quantities,  and  made  away 
with  cup  after  cup  of  strong  tea  or  coffee.  There 
were  forty  persons  in  the  rooms,  and  with  fe  w  excep- 
tions they  excelled  the  eating  powers  of  the  parents. 
There  was  no  hurry  or  noise.  All  were  merry  enough. 
Still  the  table  was  cleared  in  a  half-hour,  for  these 
work-people  lose  no  time  in  idle  conversation  at 
meals,  and  have  fine  teeth. 

Monsieur  McCarthy  made  a  speech  with  three 
points  and  a  climax:  he  was  proud  of  his  daughter, 
he  was  proud  of  her  husband,  he  was  proud  of  this 
day,  which  he  hoped  would  be  often  repeited!  The 
pilot,  taking  cue  from  this,  repeated  the  three  points, 
but  avoided  the  climax  by  sitting  down  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence.  They  toasted  Regina, 
who  nodded  to  John  Winthrop  to  reply  for  her,  and 
Mrs.  DeLaunay,  who  made  Captain  Sullivan  her 
sp  ;kesman.  It  was  John  who  won  the  honors  for 
what  Monsieur  McCarthy  called  a  "spick-span- 
speech,"  but  the  Captain  said  the  words  which  touched 
the  occasion  and  stirred  the  hearts  of  the  guests. 

"  I  never  thought  a  year  ago  I  could  sit  at  the 
wedding-dinner  of  Ame-'ee,  and  help  eat  his  pie  and 
turkey  in  such  company.  It's  quite  like  a  story  in  a 
paper.  But  it's  true,  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  Only  a  good 
boy  could  have  all  these  strange  things  happen  to 


2IO 

him,  and  c  -me  out  all  right,  with  so  many  friends  to 
help  him.  Last  year  he  was  in  Texas,  and  no  ore 
knew  anything  about  him,  except  that  he  was  going 
to  die  there  in  a  poor  way.  To-day  his  good  wife  is 
at  his  side  forever,  he  has  a  first-class  business,  and 
among  his  many  friends  you  can  put  down  Mrs.  De- 
Launay — I  speak  by  her  permission— and  myself  as 
the  warmest,  though  we  never  knew  him  till  this  year. 
Only  God  could  have  fixed  him  so  well,  but  He  had 
a  grio^,  foolish,  honest  boy  to  deal  with.  Amedee 
has  left  all  his  folly  in  Texas,  and  I  hope  to  see  him 
prosper  as  long  as  he  lives." 

CHAPTER  XXIL 

A     REVELATION. 

The  wedding  ended  sensations  in  Saranac.  Ame 
deVs  business  prospered.  Mr.  Grady  came  forth 
from  his  obscurity  and  resumed  his  historical  contests 
with  Mrs.  Sullivan.  The  DeLaunays  went  back  into 
haughty  seclusion.  The  autumn  frosts,  cold  rains, 
and  Indian  Summer  gave  the  village  folk  enough  to 
talk  about  after  they  had  tired  of  Amede'e,  and  his 
adventures.  Thanksgiving  was  near,  and  Christmas 
not  distant,  and  the  wail  of  the  turkey  was  heard  in 
every  barnyard.  Regma  was  thinking  of  getting  mar- 
ried. Her  thoughts  had  changed  from  the  prosaic  to 
the  poetic,  fcr  it  was  her  habit  to  idealize  the  impor- 
tant events  and  persons  of  her  life  as  she  had  idealized 
her  father  and  Captain  Sullivan.  Her  mistakes  in 
connection  with  the  character  of  these  two  gentlemen 
had  not  cured  her  of  an  agreeable  habit.  When  it 
first  occurred  to  her  that  marrying  with  John  Win- 


211 

throp  would  rescue  her  from  an  intolerable  house,  she 
had  thought  of  the  union  as  a  mere  matter  of  busi- 
ness. In  time  it  became  more  agreeably  an  affair  of 
sentiment,  almost  of  the  heart. 

Never  was  there  a  more  courteous  or  delicate  lover 
than  Winthrop.  He  had  made  it  evident  that  his 
whole  life  was  at  her  service  without  doing  any  more 
or  saying  any  more  than  the  dryest  of  advocates. 
But  what  could  be  mo'e  delicate  than  his  conduct  of 
the  affair  with  Amedee  !  And  how  generously  he  in- 
sisted on  believing  in  her  father's  innocence,  which 
saved  her  a  world  of  humiliation.  How  faithfully  he 
had  kept  the  Captain's  dishonor  to  himself !  She 
would  have  despised  him  had  he  been  less  faithful  to 
that  unworthy  Damon.  His  moral  virtues  were  the 
more  acceptable  that  their  owner  had  fine  taste  in 
dress,  white  hands,  a  handsome  face,  and  a  rearty, 
witty  tongue.  He  would  be  a  judge  some  day,  he 
would  always  be  an  agreeable  companion.  He  loved 
her  to  foolishness,  and  yet — she  paused.  He  had 
never  waked  in  her  that  interest— she  called  it  inter- 
est for  want  of  a  better  word — which  Hugh  had  won 
for  himself,  who  did  not  belong  to  her  circle,  as  the 
lawyer  did.  If  husband  of  hers  ever  used  ruch  vul 
garities  as  were  easy  to  Hugh,  she  would  be  ashamed 
of  him.  Winthrop  was  never  vulgar,  never  offensive, 
and  yet — .  What  was  the  difference  between  this 
regard  and  that  ?  Could  it  be  that  one  had  the  ele 
ment  cf  love,  which  the  other  was  without  ?  Or  was 
it  merely  that,  because  her  heart  for  a  moment  had 
turned  to  Hugh  Sullivan,  she  found  it  difficult  or 
humiliating  to  offer  it  to  another?  She  could  not 
determine.  But  John  Winthrop  at  all  events  w.'.s 


212 

one  man  of  a  thousand,  and  if  her  life  were  to  be 
spent  with  him  she  might  be  giateful  to  Providence. 

Her  father  had  suddenly  set  his  heart  on  her  mar- 
riage to  Winthrop  and  spoke  seriously  to  her. 
She  listened  without  disp^asure,  and  with  some 
amusement.  It  was  his  own  comfort  he  was  seek- 
ing. 

"  It  will  be  so  pleasant,  Regina,  to  have  your  home 
to  take  refuge  in  from  your  devil  of  a  mother;  I  brg 
pardon,  I  meant  to  say  only  tiresome  I  am  alto 
gether  cooped  now.  She  permits  no  flights  to  Mon- 
treal, or  any  other  places  without  knowledge,  per 
mission,  time-limit,  and  conduct  report.  It's  like 
going  to  school  again.  Now  with  you  in  your  own 
house  much  of  this  awful  behavior  would  disappear. 
Your  marriage  would  make  it  very  pleasant  for  us  all, 
except  for  old  David,  who  has  no  love  for  the  DeLau- 
nays.  I  wouldn't  mind  him." 

'•  Don't  you  find  mamma  easier  these  few  weeks," 
said  Regina  referring  to  a  fact  which  had  surprised 
her. 

"  Her  eyes  pierce  me,  I  can  never  be  easy  again 
while  she  can  look  at  me.  She  has  very  fine  eyes, 
Regina,  but  they  are  uncomfortable.  I  would  like  to 
be  out  of  their  range  once  or  twice  a  week,  and  if  you 
married  John  Winthrop  I  could  get  relief.  Winthrop 
is  a  decent  fellow  in  spite  of  old  David ;  the  only 
decent  boy  in  town  I  believe,  and  he  has  a  fortune. 
You  should  think  <~f  him,  Regina.  I  hope  you're  not 
thinking  of  anyone  else." 

"  I  am  really  not  thinking  at  all,  papa." 

"Well,  begin,  my  dear.  It's  time.  If  you  get  too 
sensible  you  will  be  sure  to  marry  not  at  all." 


213 

After  the  wedding  John  had  withdrawn  himself 
somewhat  from  her  company,  but  had  promptly  ac- 
cepted all  invitations  sent  him,  and  used  them 
jud  ciously.  He  had  a  pleasant  feeling  as  the  weeks 
passed,  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  courting  the  ad- 
vantage was  his,  and  Captain  Sullivan  was  out  of  the 
race.  He  labored  hard  to  improve  that  advantage, 
and  the  elder  DeLaunays  helped  him.  Meanwhile 
Regina  went  on  idealizing.  Someone  gave  her  a  vivid 
account  of  his  war  record,  ard  showed  her  a  photo- 
graph of  the  brave  soldier  in  uniform  ;  another  de- 
scribed his  brilliant  college  course,  his  high  sense  of 
honor,  his  noble  disposition.  Saranac  folk  knew  and 
loved  him  well.  It  wss  not  difficult  for  her  to  feel  a 
deep  enthusiasm  over  him  after  a  time,  when  she  ha<1 
mounted  him  finally  on  a  pedestal  high  enough  to 
satisfy  her  notion  of  idolatry.  From  that  moment 
John  Winthrop  had  only  to  thro  v  h  mself  at  her  feet 
to  be  accepted  ;  but  as  he  did  not  dieam  of  success 
so  near  the  declaration  was  delayed,  until  several 
events  had  intervened 

The  first  of  these  was  the  sickness  of  Amedee. 
Mrs.  DeLaunay  brought  the  news  one  evening  a  few 
days  after  Thanksgiving.  Her  protege*  had  taken 
cold  a  fevr  weeks  previous,  it  had  not  easily  yielded  to 
remedies,  and  that  day  he  had  a  severe  and  sudden 
hemorrhage,  so  severe  that  Mrs.  DeLaunay  felt  cer- 
tain Arnedee's  life  was  ended. 

"And  we  had  thought  it  good  for  a  few  years,"  she 
said. 

u  Fortunately  he  has  had  some  happiness,  and  the 
consolation  of  dying  with  his  friends  is  a  blessing. 
H:s  wife  understands  the  business  thoroughly,  anl  is 


214 

secure    of   a    competence.    She    is    a    very   clever 
woman." 

Regma  and  her  father  heard  of  these  people  with  a 
vast  indifference,  and  made  no  comment  usually ;  but 
the  fact  of  Amede'e's  speedy  departure  from  this  world, 
to  the  mistress'  evident  regret,  loosed  their  tongues, 
and  their  hearts  together. 

"  May  I  call  on  him,  mamma  ?  "  and  "  Fine  boy 
was  Amede'e  twenty  years  ago  before  he  took  to  drink," 
both  said  together. 

"  The  whole  town  will  be  there  in  the  next  few 
days,"  said  mamma,  "  so  that  a  visit  now  would  be 
useless.  Amedee,  you  know,  was  immensely  popular. 
When  people  learned  to  know  him,  and  convinced 
themselves  he  had  not  embezzled  your  funds,  Howard, 
they  took  time  to  get  acquainted  with  him.  His  super- 
ior character  charmed  them.  What  a  loss  he  will  be." 

"  It  is  a  terrible  time  to  die,"  said  Regina,  "  in  this 
weather.  Snow  may  come  any  moment.  He  must 
feel  discouraged." 

Snow  came  the  next  day,  but  Amedee  was  not  in 
the  least  dashed  by  the  approach  of  death  or  the  in- 
clement weather.  He  had  known  long  ago  that  death 
would  come  to  him  early,  and  he  had  looked  for  it 
under  more  distressing  circumstances ;  but  to  die  in 
his  OTn  home,  in  his  native  town,  to  die  respected  by 
his  own,  rich  in  the  love  of  wife  and  mother,  restored 
in  reputation,  to  rest  in  the  old  churchyard  where  he 
had  played  a  boy,  where  his  brethren  rested,  all  this 
was  pure  delight  to  the  exile  and  robbed  death  of  vic- 
tory. He  liad  thought  once  to  die  unconfessed  and 
unanointed  in  a  Texan  barn,  shot  down  in  his  drunk- 
enness perhaps,  and  to  be  thrown  without  rite  or  pie- 


paration  into  the  nearest  ditch  that  would  hide  him 
So,  while  mother  and  wife  and  physician  and  friend 
ran  to  his  ser.ice  in  sadness  and  trembling,  he  was 
calm  and   ind  ffereat  almost,  made  no  complaint  and 
smiled  tranquilly  upon  them.    The   doctor  made  the 
end  clear  to  them  at  once.  Amedee  was  on  his  death- 
bed.    He  would  have  one  or  two  more  hemorrhages, 
perhaps,  and  die  like  a  weakened  child.  In  the  mean- 
time he  might  recover  sufficiently  to  move  about  the 
house  for  a  few  weeks  or  months,  but  he  would  never 
go  abroad  more.     It  was  a  shock  even  to  those  who 
knew  death  had  been  near  him  ever  since  his  return. 
It  had  really  seemed  to  Madame,  just  after  her  SOD'S 
happy  marriage,  that  he  would  live  long  enough   to 
close  her  eyes,  ten  years  at  least ;  he  had  appeared  so 
strong  and   full  of  life.     But  what  can  one  do   with 
lungs  that  bleed !     She  had  no  complaint  to  make 
more  than  he.     All  her  prayers  had  been  answered, 
and  a  thousand  blessings  had  flowed  in  upon  her  to 
which  she  had  no  right,   except    that  they  came 
straight  from  the  heart  of  the  good  God.  She  had  but 
to  think  of  what  she  had  received,  and  what   might 
have  been  her  son's  fate,  to  smile  with  a  resignation 
that  was  more  akin  to  joy  than  sorrow. 

These  three  months  that  he  had  been  with  her  were 
a  foretaste  of  heaven.  Every  day  had  been  filled  with 
gladness.  He  could  not  do  too  much  for  her,  nor  she 
enough  for  him.  His  photograph,  a  picture  of  his 
store,  a  photograph  of  his  wife,  fhtrc  Elizabeth,  his 
Texan  souvenirs  hung  in  her  kitchen  just  over  the 
dolpHn  lamp  which  for  so  many  years  shone  in  the 
window  for  him.  Fie  was  to  live  until  her  last  prayer 
was  answered.  Her  boy  would  die  with  the  sacra 


2l6 

men  s,  and  lie  in  consecrated  ground.  She  had  prayed 
for  that,  and  most  grateful  was  she  to  have  her  prayer 
answered.  As  Mrs  DeLaunay  said  the  whole  town 
went  in  to  visit  him,  and  assure  him  of  their  best 
wishes.  Monsieur  Narcisse  McCarthy  wept  briefly, 
and  then  secretly  inquired  of  his  daughter  if  she  had 
the  will  and  if  she  were  positive  everything  was  all 
right.  He  had  to  be  assured,  too,  before  he  would 
weep  again,  and  his  tears  were  large  enough  to  irritate 
old  LaRoche,  who  knew  of  the  will  and  could  not  feel 
the  justice  of  leaving  a  McCarthy  all  his  son's  prop- 
erty. Bat  these  things  were  not  to  be  spoken  about! 
Mrs.  Sullivan  put  on  her  black  velvet  and  feathers  to 
do  honor  to  the  sick  man  when  she  visited  him,  and 
could  scarcely  say  a  word  in  her  effor :  to  maintain  the 
utmost  propriety  of  speech  and  manner.  Mrs.  De 
Launay  was  often  at  his  bedside  those  times  when  visi- 
tors were  not  allowed  to  see  him.  She  spoke  French 
well,  and  Madame  had  long  talks  with  her  on  Amed£e, 
in  which  the  dear  old  Canadian  mother  gave  her  the 
entire  history  of  his  birth,  babyhood,  growth  and  man- 
hood  as  only  a  mother  can  ;  with  particular  attention 
to  the  sicknesses  through  which  she  nursed  him,  and 
the  amount  of  catechism  she  had  taught  him.  It  was 
a  spectacle  of  wonder  to  Mrs.  DeLaunay  to  see  the 
perfect  love  and  confidence  between  them,  and  to 
hear  the  tenderness  with  which  he  called  "  Ma  Mere." 

"  He  is  like  a  little  child  again,"  said  Madame  half 
smiling  through  her  tears. 

The  young  men  helped  to  nurse  him  in  the  peculiar 
kindly  fashion  of  Saranac,  and  the  two  friends  Hugh, 
and  Wm:hrop  were  readiest  with  their  services  as 
watchers.  The  season  of  navigation  had  closed,  and 


217 

the  Captain  was  at  home  for  the  winter  Atnedee 
liked  none  other  as  these  two ;  for  the  Captain  had 
saved  him  from  despair,  and  the  lawyer  had  conceived 
a  deep  regard  for  him  from  the  time  of  the  wedding. 
They  not  only  assisted  at  his  bedside,  but  also  gave 
Elizabeth  their  aid  in  the  store,  where  Messieurs  Mc- 
Carthy and  LaRoche  eyed  each  other  every  day  with 
considerable  suspicion  and  distrust.  Such  clerks  as 
the  Captain  and  the  lawyer  made  it  pleasant  for  the 
younger  customers,  and  perhaps  increased  the  trade 
among  that  class  while  they  served.  Amedee  as 
usual  revived  quickly  and  was  moving  around  his  room 
before  Christmas.  It  was  then  Regina  came,  gracious 
and  beautiful,  to  tell  him  how  sorry  she  was  for  his 
sickness  and  how  earnestly  she  hoped  he  would  be 
out  and  able  to  attend  to  his  business  very  soon. 
He  smiled  politely  but  seriously.  He  might  have 
hoped  that  time  would  restore  him  to  his  old  condi- 
tion, but  the  priest  had  only  that  morning  removed 
his  hope  from  him. 

"  There  are  weeks  of  life  for  you,"  he  had  said 
gently,  "but  nothing  more,  Amedee." 

"Tnen  I  must  make  one  more  good  general  con- 
fession before  I  go,"  said  the  cheerful  fellow.  "  I'll 
get  ready  this  afternoon,  and  do  you  please  come  in 
the  morning,  my  father,  while  I  am  strong.  Tell  me, 
does  Elizabeth,  or  any  of  them  know  this  ?" 

"  The  doctor  told  them  the  very  day  you  were  taken 
down." 

"  Then  I  am  spared  their  sorrow,''  he  said. 

Regina  came  in  with  his  wife  afterwards,  and  nude 
her  pretty  speech  of  regret  and  sympathy 

"  I  am  glad  you  came  to-day,"  he  said,  "for  I  had 


just  thought  of  a  little  incident  that  happened  in  the 
summer,  and  wished  to  have  it  off  my  mind.  I  owe 
you  a  little  reparation  for  having  once  helped  to  de- 
ceive you  perhaps." 

She  snr'led  indulgently,  and  his  wife  said,  smiling, 
"  He  must  soon  make  his  confession,  and  so  he  is 
getting  very  particular  about  remembering  every- 
thing." 

"  This  is  a  trifle,"  he  said,  laughing  at  some  mem- 
ory, "  but  the  circumstances  were  very  curious.  Until 
you  saw  me  at  the  Point,  Miss  DeLaunay,  had  you 
ever  seen  me  before  ?" 

"  Not  to  remember  you  "  she  said. 

"  I  do  not  speak  of  years  ago,"  he  continued,  "  for 
you  were  then  very  young  ;  but  this  summer  I  mean, 
befo-e  you  called  on  me  in  Sol  Tuttle's." 

He  was  smiling  at  the  remembrance  of  su  h  a  meet- 
ing. 

"I  cannot  recall  having  met  you,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  tramp  who  bowed  to  you 
on  the  dock  at  Whitehall  ?  Do  you  remember  the 
wrecking  of  Captain  Sullivan's  boat  ?  Do  you  recall 
the  cabin  in  the  woods  where  the  ladies  slept,  and 
how  you  sat  on  the  old  porch  talking  ?'' 

"  Is  it  possible  ?"  she  cried. 

"  I  was  the  tramp,"  he  went  on.  "  Since  that  night 
I  did  not  once  think  of  it,  but  this  morning  I  remem- 
bered the  letters  I  handed  to  you  to  read.  I  told  you 
I  found  them,  and  asked  if  you  could  make  out  their 
owner's  name.  That  was  a  trick,  Miss  DeLaunay, 
which  meant  no  harm  I  hope.  Mr.  Winthrop  handed 
me  the  letters,  and  bade  me  give  them  to  you.  He 
laughed  as  he  did  so;  and  you  did  not  seem  to  mind 


219 

them,  but  told  me  to  give  them  back  to  him.  After 
wards  I  was  afraid  I  might  have  done  harm.  I  took 
money  for  it,  and  if  there  was  injustice  done  I  must 
restore  the  money.  I  would  not  keep  it." 

"  Mr.  Wmthrop  had  an  object  in  acting  so  I  pre- 
sume,'  she  answered  carelessly,  "but  it  was  entirely 
harmless  as  far  as  I  was  concerned.  You  can  quiet 
your  conscience  about  it.  And  I  am  inclined  to  be 
grateful  both  for  handing  me  the  letters,  and  for  tell- 
ing me  of  the  little  deception.  Mr.  Wmthrop  will 
be  mortified  to  hear  that  I  caught  him  so  easily.  Be 
kind  enough  lo  tell  him." 

Then  she  talked  about  the  weather. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AT  REST. 

Madame  LaRoche  was  indignant  with  herself  for 
her  bitter  pain  at  the  sight  of  Amed^e  dying.  It  was 
like  a  re  flection  on  the  kindness  of  the  good  God, 
who  had  save  I  her  son  from  a  miserable  death  in 
Texas,  and  given  her  the  blessed  privilege  of  receiv- 
ing his  )a-t  sigh.  But  the  agony  continued  in  spite  of 
her  indignation,  and  the  thought  of  parting  caused 
her  exquisite  pain.  She  could  not  help  thinking  of  the 
years  they  might  have  spent  together  had  he  not  taken 
that  unfortunate  cold  She  blamed  herself  for  a  lack 
of  watchful  care  over  him,  and  she  ventured,  though 
with  shame  for  her  greediness,  to  ask  the  good  God 
for  a  stay  of  death.  She  knew  it  was  quite  useless. 
Her  boy  was  dying.  Only  a  miracle  could  save  him, 
and  theie  had  been  miracles  enough  in  his  life.  It 


220 

was  sorrowful  work  to  sit  with  him  and  Elizabeth,  all 
three  knowing  the  end  was  near,  to  embrace  him 
each  night  and  morning  with  the  thought  of  the  last 
embrace  rankling  in  the  heart.  He  made  it  more 
painful  by  his  gentleness.  The  world  had  all  at  once 
faded  from  him,  most  guiltless  of  all  sinners.  All 
good  fortune  had  come  bark  to  him  in  one  ship,  and 
the  pain  of  dying  seemed  nothing  in  the  light  of  his 
restoration. 

Saranac  was  in  tears  for  him,  which  was  not  won- 
derful in  a  town  whose  entire  population  shed  weekly 
tears  over  the  heroines  of  the  story  papers.  The 
story  of  his  life  in  Texas  had  been  finally  absorbed 
by  the  Saranac  mind  ;  the  injustice  done  him  by  De 
Launay  was  felt,  but  not  clearly  known  ;  the  thrilling 
events  of  his  return  had  touched  every  h  eart ;  it  was 
precise'y  like  a  story  in  the  Ledger,  but  alas !  the 
hero  was  dying  at  the  moment  his  prosperity  was 
greatest.  So  the  Saranac  people  wept,  and  called  to 
fee  their  hero  in  numbers.  Mrs.  DeLaunay  brought 
fl^we-s,  and  smoothed  his  pillow ;  Regina  and  her 
father  agreed  with  her  that  it  was  not  the  place  for 
them. 

"  It  would  certainly  trouble  his  dreams  to  see 
either  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  DeLaunay.  This  was  true, 
for  the  only  shadow  on  his  dying  hours,  very  light  it 
was,  sprang  from  the  thoughts  of  what  might  have 
been.  It  was  too  far  off  to  cause  any  resentment. 
Mrs.  DeLaunay  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Tim 
Grady  a  penitent  at  Amedee's  bedside.  Humiliation 
had  not  conquered  the  old  man's  conceit,  but  the 
failure  of  his  most  precise  prophecies  had  softened 
his  heart.  The  whole  town  was  weeping  over  his 


221 

godson,  how  could  he,  who  had  the  right  and  duty  to 
weep,  stand  apart  with  dry  eyes  !  And  the  boy  had 
done  we1',  and  was  going  down  to  the  grave  like 
a  Christian.  He  came  in  to  see  him,  therefore, 
bringing  a  crucifix  indulged  for  the  dying,  whose  like 
was  not  in  the  county  outside  of  the  priest's  house. 
This  was  his  excuse ;  and  then  after  much  hemming 
he  made  Hs  appeal  just  as  Mrs.  DeLaunay  entered 
in  her  quietest  way  and  sat  down  near  the  door  un- 
coticed. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  ask  yer  pardon,  Amede"e,"  said  Mr. 
Grady  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  astonishing  the 
town,  and  Atnede"e  made  a  gesture  of  dissent,  but  the 
old  man  continued,  "for  makin'  things  harder  for  ye 
at  the  start  than  they  ought  to've  been ;  but  I  was 
mighty  uncertain  about  yez,  an'  I  was  afraid  ye'd 
break  yer  mother's  heart,  an'  ruin  yer  father,  for  I  did 
not  belave  ye  had  such  will  an'  grace  in  ye,  as  ye've 
shown.  An'  if  people  hadn't  interfered  I'd  have  come 
long  ago  to  tell  ye  this,  an'  let  ye  know  I  stud  up  for 
ye  agin  DeLaunay  whin  yer  own  flesh  an'  blood  gev 
ye  up.  But  people  will  interfere.  An'  I  don't  forget 
ye're  me  godson,  an'  I  was  as  proud  of  ye  for  twenty 
years  as  if  ye  were  me  own ;  ye  know  that ;  an'  I'm 
proud  of  ye  now,  prouder  than  ever ;  an'  I  hope  ys 
won't  go  without  forgivin'  me,  an'  on  me  knees,"  he 
went  dovn  at  the  word,  "  I  ask  yer  pardon  for  the 
mane  things  I  did,  an'  the  mane  words  I  said  agin  ye, 
which  was  agin  me  bounden  duty,  sence  a  god  father 
should  stick  to  his  godson  through  sin  and  shame,  in 
all  weathers,  till  the  last  breath.  Do  you  forgive  me, 
Amede'e  ?" 

"  Oh,  Tim,''  said  Amedee,  "  I  forgive  if  there's  any- 


222 

fiing  to  forg've.  You  always  did  what  you  thought 
right.  Now  whisper."  Tim  rose,  and  bent  over  him. 
*  I  don't  wish  the  others  to  hear.  When  I  am  dead, 
do  you  prepare  me  for  the  coffin.  Remember,  I  want 
no  one  but  you,  godfather,  and  anyone  you  choose  to 
help  you,  to  prepare  my  body.'' 

The  unbidden  tears  burst  suddenly  fro»n  Tim's 
eyes,  and  for  a  moment  he  could  not  speak. 

"  I'll  see  to  it,"  he  said  at  last,  and  turned  to  the 
door.  Mrs.  DeLaunay  saluted  him  gravely,  and 
whiskered: 

"You  were  slow  in  earning  to  it,  Mr.  Grady,  but  I 
was  delighted  to  hear  your  apologies  to  that  poor  boy, 
and  see  you  on  your  knees  to  him  at  last.'' 

His  glance  ought  to  have  slain  her.  HP  went  down 
to  the  store  where  Captain  LaRoche  and  Monsieur 
Narcisse  McCarthy  kept  watch  on  each  other,  and 
from  that  moment  began  to  order  them  about  like 
cash  boys.  As  they  were  all  old  friends  they  quar- 
relled amicably.  No  one  was  kinder  to  Amedee  in 
his  sickness  than  John  Winthrop,  who  felt  a  meek  re- 
morse for  his  share  in  the  first  misfortunes  of  the  man. 
As  a  lawyer  he  could  not  avoid  being  harsh  at  that 
timi*,  but  his  harshness  had  been  unnecessary.  He 
made  up  for  it  now  by  sharing  the  watch  in  the  sick- 
room with  Hugh,  and  by  a  hundred  little  kindnesses. 
It  occurred  to  Arae^ee  one  day  that  Winthrop  might 
like  to  know  what  he  had  said  to  Regina  concerning 
those  letters ;  he  could  not  help  thinking  there  was 
something  more  serious  in  that  bit  of  deception  than 
he  could  make  out ;  and  John's  kindnesi  deserved 
that  he  should  be  enlightened.  He  forgot  the  matter 
directly  until  one  morning  the  young  men  were  leav- 


223 

ing  him  after  the  night  watch.  Then  he  called  Win- 
throp  to  the  bedside. 

"  I  should  have  told  you  before,''  he  said,  "that  you 
and  I  were  not  altogether  strangers  when  we  met 
here  first.  Do  you  remember  the  tramp  whom  you 
paid  to  hand  certain  letters  to  Miss  DeLaunay,  that 
night  the  Adirondack  went  ashore  above  Westport. 
I  am  chat  tramp  " 

*•  You  surprise  me,"  said  Winthrop,  and  he  might 
have  added,  you  alarm  me,  so  great  and  sudden  a 
fear  took  hold  of  him,  turning  his  face  slowly  to  a 
blue  pallor. 

"  I  was  doubtful  of  that  affair,"  continued  Amedee, 
"  and  I  told  Miss  DeLaunay  the  whole  story.  She 
didn't  seem  to  mind  it.  I  hope  there  was  no  harm 
in  it.  But  I  just  thought  you  ought  to  know." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Winthrop  calmly.  "  It  is  of  no 
account.  No  harm  was  done,  and  it  need  not  trouble 
your  conscience  " 

But  he  cursed  that  conscience  under  his  breath 
with  a  blasphemy  that  could  not  be  put  on  paper. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  said  Amede"e.     "  Good  morning." 

It  was  the  last  morning  Amedee  saw  with  mortal 
eyes.  When  the  priest  made  his  usual  visit  shortly 
after  the  breakfast  hour  he  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
death-look  in  the  patient  face.  For  that  matter  he 
might  have  seen  it  in  the  faces  of  wift  and  mother, 
who  had  both  recognized  the  fatal  sign  when  the 
morning  Tght  first  betrayed  it.  Their  mute  glances 
towards  the  priest  while  they  waited  for  his  decision 
were  half  hopeful,  half-despairing.  He  gave  them  a 
look  of  intelligence,  and  with  a  gesture  ordered  ths 
usual  preparations. 


224 

"  I  am  going  to  anoint  you,  Amede'e,"  was  all  he 
said. 

"  Did  ever  a  man  need  it  more,''  said  Atnede"e 
sighing. 

He  had  read  the  ritual  of  Extreme  Unction  over 
and  over  until  the  significance  and  full  intent  of  the 
sacrament  had  lighted  his  intelligence  and  warmed  his 
heart.  At  his  own  wish  it  had  been  deferred  until  the 
last  moment,  that  he  nrght  feel  all  the  more  strength- 
ened and  comforted  by  its  reception  j  it  was  a  delicate 
way  of  telling  him  how  near  the  end  was,  and  he  un- 
derstood. His  mother  and  wife  calmly,  but  with 
beating,  anguished  hearts,  lighted  the  candles  and 
knelt  in  silent  prayer.  The  sacred  oil  was  applied  to 
Amed6e's  closed  eyes  :  May  the  Lord,  through  this 
holy  oiling  and  His  most  loving  mercy,  forgive  you 
for  the  sins  of  sight,  said  the  priest !  Then  to  his 
ears,  the  oil  was  applied,  and  the  priest  said,  may  the 
Lord,  through  this  holy  oiling  and  His  most  loving 
mercy,  forgive  you  for  the  sins  of  hearing !  Such 
things  as  I  have  heard  and  seen,  the  sick  man  sighed ! 
When  the  oil  touched  the  nostrils,  the  priest  said, 
may  the  Lord,  through  this  holy  oiling  and  His  most 
loving  mercy,  forgive  you  the  sins  of  smell!  Over 
the  thin,  compressed  lips  the  priest  drew  his  thumb 
in  the  form  of  a  cross,  and  said  while  Amedee 
watched  him  dreamily :  May  the  Lord,  through  this 
holy  oiling  and  His  most  loving  mercy,  forgive  you 
for  sins  of  taste  and  speech !  Then  Amede'e  spread 
his  wasted  hands  on  the  counterpane,  and  in 
the  palm  of  each  the  priest  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross  with  the  oil  saying:  May  the 
Lord,  through  this  holy  oiling  and  His  most  loving 


225 

mercy,  forgive  you  for  the  sins  of  touch  !  If  I  were 
a  priest,  thought  Amedee,  he  would  rub  the  holy 
oil  on  the  back  of  my  hands  ;  poor  hands,  no  man's 
money  and  no  man's  blood  ever  stained  you,  but 
you  suffered  just  the  same.  Madame  rose  at  this 
point  and  uncovered  her  son's  feet,  the  priest 
touched  the  soles  with  the  oil  and  said  for  the  last 
time :  May  the  Lord,  through  this  holy  oiling  and 
His  most  loving  mercy,  forgive  you  for  the  sins  of 
walking !  I  shall  never  walk  again,  thought  Amedee, 
until  the  resurrection. 

The  last  prayers  were  said,  the  candles  extinguished, 
and  the  priest  sat  down  beside  the  bed  to  speak  a  few 
last  words  of  consolation,  but  Amedee  did  not  need 
them.  His  face  was  glowing  with  happiness  and  his 
thoughts  were  crowding  upon  him  like  a  mob,  not  in 
disorder  but  too  rapidly  for  expression.  It  was  like 
delirium,  and  unlike  for  he  did  rot  lose  his  mental 
balance.  The  sight  of  the  priest  seemed  to  bring  be- 
fore his  bed  in  solemn  procession  all  the  priests  that 
had  ever  been  and  would  be ;  the  thought  of  his 
mother  and  his  wife  brought  to  his  vision  innumer- 
able mourners,  weeping  for  their  dead.  He  was  not 
sad,  nor  indifferent.  His  tears  fell ;  he  saw  their  tears 
and  their  faces  ;  at  one  moment  those  in  the  room 
kissed  him  and  knelt  about  him  praying  with  lighted 
candles ;  he  consoled  and  encouraged  them  in  his 
broken  sentences,  and  said  aga-n  and  again,  I  am  so 
happy  ;  and  his  face  showed  his  happiness.  Some 
one  said  at  midnight,  it  is  twelve  o'clock,  and  a  long 
time  after,  when  troops  of  splendidly  colored  visions 
had  flashed  before  his  mind,  he  heard  the  clock  strike 
one.  Mother,  he  said  suddenly,  at  what  hour  was  I 


226 

born.  Just  at  this  hour,  she  answered  trembling. 
He  smiled  and  died !  Madame  and  Elizabeth  ga're 
loud  cries  of  anguish,  and  the  men  bowed  their  heads. 
For  a  little  while  there  was  that  silence  which  is  found 
nowhere  but  at  the  death-bed  when  the  agony  is  ended. 
Then  there  was  a  stir  among  the  men,  and  Mr.  Grady 
began  to  say  the  beads  in  aid  of  the  poor  soul  at  the 
judgment  seat.  Monsieur  Narcisse  McCarthy  had 
been  making  ready  to  perform  that  fanction,  but  he 
was  too  slow  and  too  polite  for  a  man  who  never 
missed  an  opportunity.  He  answered  Mr.  Grady's 
invocations  with  less  fervor  than  was  usual  wit'i  him. 

When  the  prayers  were  over  the  mourning  women 
were  led  away  to  another  room,  and  the  dead  was  left 
in  Mr  Grady's  charge. 

"  The  last  words  Amedee  said  to  me,"  Tim  an- 
nounced to  those  present,  "  wor  that  I  should  take 
charge  o'  the  layin'  out ;  an'  he  forb'd  that  any  wan 
besides  me  should  lay  a  hand  on  him." 

Every  one  submitted  to  this  declaration. 

"  But  he  left  it  to  me  to  choose  a  helper,"  continued 
Mr.  Grady  loftily,  "  an'  if  Misther  McCarthey  'd  be 
kind  enough  to  lend  a  hand '' 

Monsieur  Narcisse  accepted  with  dignity  and  re- 
serve, as  if  he  doubted  the  wisdom  of  poor  Amedee's 
choice.  He  admitted  later  that  Tim  had  been  the 
boy's  godfather  much  longer  than  he  himself  had  been 
his  father-in-law,  but  maintained  that  the  widow's 
father  should  hold  a  position  of  confidence  next  to  the 
parents  of  Amedee.  Mr.  Grady  discoursed  tearfully 
while  they  made  the  preparations  for  burial,  and  it 
was  te  Monsieur  McCarthy's  disadvantage  that  he 
could  not  feel  similar  grief. 


227 

'•  You  wor  at  his  christenin',  McCarthy,"  said  Tim. 
"An'  ye  mind  how  he  kicked  an'  yelled  an'  screamed. 
Poor  Amedee !  quiet  enough  are  ye  at  this  moment  I 
And  he  weighed  fourteen  pound  if  he  weighed  an 
ounce.  Not  much  more  than  that  now  ye'd  think  to 
]uk  at  him.  I  carried  him  on  me  showlder  manny  a 
time  when  h^  weighed  more.  'Twas  I  that  tot  him 
to  shwim,  an'  a  purtier  shwimmer  than  he  was  at  fif 
teen  ye  wouldn't  find  on  all  Champlain.  D'ye  mind 
how  he  jumped  into  the  lake  the  night  we  thried  to 
lasso  him,  an'  shwam  to  his  own  mother's  door.  'Twas 
a  blessin'  he  didn't  dhrown  then  in  his  sins.  I  never 
thought  he'd  live  to  get  the  sacraments,  an'  here  he  is 
afore  me  wid  the  blessed  oils  hardly  dhry  on  him,  an' 
all  his  throubbs  over,  an'  a  splendid  funeral  waitin' 
for  him,  an'  a  who'e  town  cryin'  for  him,  an'  a  wife 
an'  childhren  to  folly  him." 

"  Children,"  said  Monsieur  Narcisse. 

"  Well,  there  may  be  yet,"  said  Tim  maliciously, 
"  an'  then  wills  or  no  wills  the  store  goes  to  thim." 

Mrs.  Sullivan  appeared  in  the  room  just  as  they 
were  finishing  the  work  of  preparation,  an  uttered  an 
exclamation  at  the  s'gM  of  Tim  Grady. 

"  Musha,  thin,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  but  it 
takes  yerself,  Tim,  to  show  the  brazen  face  when  it's 
needed  An'  I  wondher  the  boy  doesn't  turn  on  the 
bed  at  the  touch  o'  yer  hand  after  all  the  heart-scald- 
in'  ye  gev  him.  An'  if  he  wor  anny  relation  o'  mine, 
it's  on  the  outside  o'  the  door  ye'd  be  this  minit 
washing  the  mud  off  the  steps,  which  is  too  good  for  the 
likes  o'  ye." 

"  Did  ye  come  here  to  raise  a  storm  in  the  pres- 
ence o'  the  dead  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Grady  sternly. 


228 

"  Since  he's  quiet,"  said  she,  looking  at  the  boy,  "I 
may  well  be." 

"  Did  ye  know,"  said  Mr.  Grady,  u  that  on  me  two 
knees  I  begged  his  pardon  yistherday,  an'  that  he 
asked  me  himself  to  lay  him  out,  an'  forbid  anny  other 
livin'  sowl  to  come  next  or  nigh  him  while  I  was  pre- 
parin'  him  for  his  rest.  Wasn't  it  I  that  stud  up  for 
him  whin  you  an'  the  likes  iv  ye  scarcely  remembered 
his  name  ?  Didn't  I  tackle  DeLaunay  for  him  whin 
yer  own  son  was  helpin'  to  chate  him  out  iv  his 
rights?  Didn't  I  go  to  Texas  afther  him—" 

"Ye  did,  Tim,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Sullivan  tenderly, 
*'  an  ye  spoiled  it  all  be  yer  behavior  whin  ye  kem 
home.  But  if  he's  pardoned  ye  what  right  have  we 
to  say  a  word." 

This  excited  conversation  was  carried  on  almost  in 
whispers  and  gave  Monsieur  McCarthy  much  pleas- 
ure. He  foresaw  his  own  insignificance  at  Amedee  s 
funeral ;  Tim  would  receive  the  appointment  of  di- 
rector fr^m  Captain  LaRoche,  and  the  widow  would 
not  object ;  therefore  it  pleased  him  that  Mr.  Grady 
should  receive  an  occasional  rasping  from  his  friends. 
He  could  afford  to  be  insignificant  The  will  was  in 
favor  of  the  widow,  who  was  now  sole  proprietor  of  the 
finest  store  in  Saranac;  and  Captain  LaRoche,  al- 
though avoiding  speech,  was  wrathy  that  his  son  had 
left  him  no  share  in  it.  Madame  would  not  hear  of 
such  a  thing.  The  two  fathers  had  shared,  while 
Amed6e  was  dying,  in  the  management  of  the 
store ;  now  Monsieur  Narcisse  McCarthy  alone  had 
a  right  to  ask  for  the  key,  to  enter,  to  handle  the 
goods,  and  to  look  at  the  books.  It  was  humiliating, 
c,nd  if  the  captain  said  nothing  his  numerous  sons 


229 

and  daughters  and  their  sons  and  daughters  said 
more  than  enough  for  him,  out  of  Madame's  hearing. 

The  waking  of  Amedee  was  a  notable  event  in  the 
history  of  Saranac.  The  hero  of  a  real  romance  was 
dead,  and  the  whole  town,  including  the  prosperous 
villain  who  had  helped  to  kill  him,  wen  t  to  look  at  the 
wasted  face,  to  shed  tears  of  sympathy,  and  tears  of 
onions  where  sympathy  was  weak,  to  gossip  in  the 
parlor,  to  sip  wine,  and  to  congratulate  the  widow  on 
her  will,  whose  meanest  word  was  now  town  talk. 

It  was  a  hitch  in  the  romance  that  the  villain 
should  be  on  earth  and  the  hero  in  heaven,  but  this 
was  borne  with  since  the  hero  had  left  so  popular 
a  will.  Everyone  spoke  with  LaRoche  about  it,  and 
admired  his  generosity  in  permitting  such  a  will  to  be 
made  ;  and  as  this  praise  was  all  he  could  get  out  of 
the  estate  he  made  shift  to  be  content  with  it,  but  he 
ground  his  teeth  when  he  looked  at  Monsieur  Narcisse. 
The  strangers  who  came  to  look  at  Amede"e  or  to 
pray  beside  him  found  it  an  ordeal  to  pass  through 
the  crowd  in  the  parlor,  and  to  retire  again.  It  was  a 
decorous  crowd  by  day,  and  a  chatty  crowd  at  night. 
The  women  gossiped  in  the  parlor,  and  the  men  told 
solemn  tales  in  the  kitchen,  for  it  is  notable  that  men 
take  these  occasions  with  greater  seriousness  than 
women,  though  with  fewer  tears.  Being  in  good  part 
boatmen  they  felt  glad  that  Amedee  had  found  a  de- 
cent harbor  at  last,  and  died  with  a  good  name.  Cap- 
tain Sullivan  was  tbe  most  respected  man  among  them 
for  the  help  he  had  given  the  poor  lad  against  the 
powers  of  the  town.  Thus  they  talked  for  the  two 
days  and  nights  that  AmedeVs  body  lay  in  state  in  his 
own  parlor,  until  the  morning  of  the  funeral  came. 


230 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

REJECTED  ! 

John  Winthrop  was  a  pall-bearer  at  the  funeral, 
and  it  can  be  imagined  how  the  burying  of  Amedee 
interested  him.  Had  he  his  way  the  body  would  hive 
been  pitched  into  the  lake  with  a  weight  to  the  heels. 
He  was  half  disgusted  with  himself  for  the  insare 
hatred  for  Amede  which  took  possession  of  him. 
He  was  certain  it  was  insanity,  for  his  good  sense 
told  him  that  the  honesty  of  the  Texan  was  to  be 
commended,  but  told  him  in  vain.  He  could  not 
shake  off  his  passion,  could  not  look  at  the  dead  body 
as  a  dead  force  powerless  forevermore,  could  not  take 
a  business  view  of  the  matter  at  all  He  was  ruined 
hopelessly  by  the  act  of  this  dead  tramp.  Regina  had 
endured  the  disgrace  of  a  dishonest  father  partly  be- 
cause there  was  no  escape  from  it,  bit  a  dishonored 
husband  it  was  in  her  power  to  avoid.  And  in  hf  r 
esteem  he  knew  himself  forever  dishonored.  He  had 
done  a  detestable  thing,  betrayed  his  friend,  fixed 
upon  him  a  false  charge.  For  nothing !  To  no  pur- 
pose because  this  worthless  dead  thief  had  a  scruple 
ot  conscience.  He  looked  at  him  in  his  coffin  and 
scowled  that  he  had  no  power  to  torture  him.  He 
rejoiced  in  the  tears,  the  groans,  the  passionate  fare- 
wells of  mother  and  wife  hanging  over  the  wasted 
body.  It  soothed  him  for  a  moment,  that  bitter  an- 
guish. It  did  him  good  to  see  the  coffin  lid  screwed 
down  finally. 


No  one  but  Regina  understood  the  strange  ex- 
pression on  his  face,  and  she  paid  little  heed.  The 
snow  was  deep,  and  the  hole  into  which  they  lowered 
the  coffia  looked  ghastly.  It  was  not  deep  or  hideous 
enough  for  Winthrop,  who  shovelled  his  share  of  earth 
on  the  coffin  with  glee.  It  was  childish,  unmanly, 
ungenerous  as  he  knew,  but  his  pain  and  despair  had 
to  vent  themselves  on  something ;  and  what  did  a 
lost  wretch  like  him  care  for  generosity  or  manliness. 
His  dsy  was  done.  The  living  might  be  generous, 
the  dead  were  dead.  Poor  Winthrop  had  lost  his 
balance.  It  was  well  that  he  spoke  not  to  discover 
the  loss  to  others.  His  face  was  pale  and  severe, 
and  in  returning  Hugh  called  his  attention  to  it. 

Winthrop  erdured  Sullivan's  chatter  in  silence. 
It  was  painful  to  argue  with  him,  who 
owned  the  unanswerable  argument  of  success.  He 
alore  now  had  a  flawless  title  1o  Regina's  esteem.  Of 
the  three  men  this  young  woman  had  be°n  lei  to  re- 
spect at  various  times  but  one  ha  1  been  able  to  main- 
tain his  reputation.  The  other  two  were  alike  in 
guiltiness,  but  the  younger  was  the  greater  sinner ;  for 
DeLaunay  had  betrayed  his  innocent  clerk  whereas 
Le,  John  Winthrop,  had  betrayed  his  innocent  friend. 
It  was  here  that  the  lawyer  lost  his  head.  Had  he 
won  Regina  his  treason  would  have  annoyed  but  not 
sickened  him;  and  in  time  he  would  have  escaped 
even  annoyance.  Loss  of  her  meant  for  him  the  end 
of  all  things.  He  could  no  longer  look  at  the  situa- 
tion as  one  disinterested  and  hopeful,  and  study  the 
chances  of  success.  Like  a  brave  man  cornered  he 
was  bent  on  resisting  to  the  utmost  his  fate,  and  could 
hope  that  his  might  be  the  one  chance  in  a  thousand. 


He  was  capable  of  nothing  more.  He  could  not  see 
ground  for  accomplishing  more.  Had  he  kept  his 
wits  about  him  he  would  not  have  blundered. 

Regina  had  taken  the  affair  very  sensibly,  and  if 
let  alone  might  in  the  end  have  felt  flattered.  All  this 
villany  was  done  for  her  sake.  She  began  to  see  a 
pleasant  logic  in  it.  Captain  Sullivan,  if  he  ever  de- 
sired to  marry  her,  probably  informed  Winthrop  of 
her  father's  sin  in  order  to  drive  the  lawyer  from  the 
field ;  and  John  had  his  revenge  by  contriving  that 
she  should  read  the  guilty  letter. 

Men  were  evidently  much  alike.  When  clever, 
handsome,  magnetic,  like  Amedee,  John,  Hugh,  and 
her  father  they  were  great  rogues,  powerful  sinners  ; 
when  virtuous  or  spotless  they  were  priests  or  cranks, 
too  stupid  or  too  indifferent  to  practice  necessary  vil- 
lainy. She  wondered  though  if  such  a  thing  as  unim- 
peachable honesty  existed  anywhere.  She  nad  once 
thought  herself  and  all  her  intimates  honest.  Her 
mother  had  slipped  once,  and  her  father  many  times; 
she  herself  had  been  wilfully  unjust  to  Amede'e,  whose 
father  had  sold  his  son's  right  to  justice  against  De- 
Launay  for  money. 

They  were  all  honest  until  it  came  to  a  pinch  ;  then 
the  father  sold  his  son,  and  the  friend  betrayed  the 
friend.  Of  course  these  were  not  serious  matters  in 
which  honesty  had  failed  them.  If  called  on  to  be 
martyrs  these  people  would  probably  go  to  the  scaf- 
fold cheerfully.  In  minor  points  there  was  evidently 
no  standard  but  comfort  or  convenience.  While  she 
would  like  to  have  known  of  men  and  women  who 
lived  faithful  and  spotless  in  all  things  big  and  little, 
she  was  determined  not  to  be  cast  down  by  discovering 


233 

the  sins  of  her  friends.  All  men  were  sinners.  For  poor 
Winthrop  there  was  the  heavy  excuse  that  he  had  sinned 
against  the  lesser  love  for  sake  of  the  greater.  She 
was  willing  to  pardon  him  the  moment  he  confessed. 

Had  he  known  of  her  humor — and  keeping  his  wits 
about  him  he  would  have  discovered  it — the  end  of 
the  chapter  would  have  been  far  different.  But  his 
w'ts  were  clean  gone.  This  spotless  creature  whom  he 
adored  was  lost  to  him  forever ;  for  the  reasons,  as 
he  believed,  that  her  standards  were  angelic  and  that 
she  had  not  an  ounce  of  practical  sense  in  her  sys- 
tem. She  could  not  allow  for  human  weakness.  She 
was  disgusted  with  her  father,  now  much  more  with 
him  whom  she  had  praised  for  his  fidelity  to  his 
friend !  As  happiness  and  life  were  surely  ended  for 
him,  he  proceeded  to  act  like  a  man  on  his  death-bed. 
He  must  make  atonement,  bid  farewell,  and  dispose 
of  his  property.  He  first  made  confession  to  Regina, 
and  was  not  surprised  that  she  received  his  frigid 
statement  without  the  least  display  of  feeling. 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,"  he  said,  "for  those  letters 
which  were  given  to  you  by  LaRoche  that  night  the 
steamer  went  ashore.  Amed^e  told  me  he  had  ex- 
plained the  deception  practised  on  you.  You  can 
guess  what  prompted  me  to  the  deception.  I  was 
dee^y  in  love  with  you,  and  desperate  because  there 
seemed  no  hope  for  me.  You  were  dreaming  of 
Captain  Sullivan.  That  morning  when  you  fell  asleep 
on  the  cabin  porch  I  stood  watching  your  face.  You 
murmured  his  name  with  such  an  expression  that  it 
drove  me  mad  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
destroy  your  esteem  for  him.  I  sent  you  the  letter 
which  did  that." 


234 

"  Very  effectually,"  she  said  politely,  not  a  trace  of 
anger  or  other  feeling  in  tone  or  manner. 

"  I  have  no  way  of  making  reparation,"  he  continu- 
ed, "  but  except  to  myself  I  trust  there  has  been  no 
harm  done.  I  wish  sincerely  to  get  forgiveness  from 
>ou." 

"  You  have  it,"  she  answered  cordially,  and  almost 
added,  "  Please  don't  feel  so  badly,"  but  saved  her- 
self in  time. 

"I  owe  it  to  the  Captain  to  put  him  right  in  your 
estimation.  Although  he  actually  wrote  that  letter, 
he  was  utterly  unconscious  of  having  revealed  a  se- 
cret. I  will  explain  it  to  you  if  you  like.  Indeed  I 
must  explain  it  to  you.  First  let  me  read  the  letter." 

S^  e  would  have  objected,  but  he  did  not  give  her 
time. 

"  You  see  how  it  reads.  As  if  I  were  already  ac- 
quainted with  the  facts  in  your  father's  case.  He 
is  not  telling  me  something  new,  but  commenting  on 
something  which  both  of  us  are  supposed  to  know." 

When  she  looked  mystified  he  handed  her  the  fatal 
letter  of  whose  existence  Hugh  was  unconscious,  and 
pointed  out  its  peculiarity 

"  Naturally  you  read  it  hastily  when  Amedee  hand- 
ed it  to  you,''  he  continued  sadly.  "  I  was  puzzled 
over  its  meaning  when  I  first  received  it.  I  knew 
nothing  of  the  LaRoche  trouble,  was  out  of  town 
when  it  began  and  ended,  and  could  only  surmise  that 
Hugh  was  referring  to  something  which  was  town- 
talk  at  home,  and  which  he  supposed  I  had  heard. 
On  returning  I  made  a  few  inquiries,  and 
could  learn  nothing.  Then  I  spoke  to  Hugh  cau- 
tiously. I  asked  him  if  it  were  he  whot  old  me  of 


235 

something  in  connection  with  the  DeLaunays,  which 
might  have  laaded  one  of  them  in  prison.  He  denied 
everything  promptly.  I  studied  the  letter  again,  and 
hit  upon  a  solution  of  the  mystery.  Observe  that  it 
consists  of  three  paragraphs.  The  middle  one  might 
be  left  out,  and  the  letter  is  complete.  As  it  stands 
it  is  puzzling  for  it  supposes  me  to  have  a  knowledge 
which  I  had  not.  The  explanation  seems  to  be  this: 
Hugh  had  been  at  Dennarrora  prison  that  week 
hunting  up  a  position  for  a  friend.  The  mention  of 
the  word  prison  in  the  first  paragraph  suggested  to 
him  the  recent  LaRorhe  trouble,  and  he  wrote  uncon- 
sciously his  thoughts  about  it  in  the  second  para- 
graph ;  in  tiie  third  he  returns  to  the  proper  subject 
of  the  letter.  Hz  has  never  once  dreamed  of  his 
innocent  betrayal  of  a  family  secret.  Fidelity  is  his 
great  virtue.  Ev?n  if  he  never  gave  you  his  word  to 
keep  the  stcre  t,  his  lips  would  have  been  the  last  to 
mention  it  You  must  do  him  the  justice  to  hold 
him  innocent  of  this  wrong." 

"  I  do, '  she  answered  somewhat  agitated.  "  Your 
explanation  clears  away  other  misunderstandings 
which  had  annoyed  me.  He  is  your  debtor  in  that.'' 

"And  then  he  too  loves  you,"  said  John  mournfully, 
"  but  he  has  always  thought  himse  f  unworthy  of  you, 
and  has  not  so  much  as  dreamed  of  pressing  a  suit. 
Hugh  is  naturally  noble  even  if  his  training  leads  him 
to  say  and  do  awkward  things.  I  suppose  his  religion 
has  srmething  to  do  with  it.  I  hope  you  feel  that  I 
have  done  my  utmost  to  restore  him  to  your  good 
opinion." 

"You  have  done  your  utmost,"  she  repl  ed  quite 
calmly,  but  she  was  hot  and  cold  by  turn-s,  and  could 


236 

hardly  speak.  A  dying  man  could  not  have  exposed 
his  ill  doing  better  or  have  repaired  injuries  more 
thoroughly  than  poor  Winthrop.  There  was  nothing 
now  for  him  to  do,  as  far  as  Regina  was  concerned, 
but  to  die.  He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  do 
that  right  away.  Of  his  wits  there  remained  to  him 
only  that  fraction  which  bade  him  fight  for  his  hope 
to  the  last.  He  did  not  see  that  with  his  own 
hand  he  had  destroyed  it  when  he  had  put  up  on  its 
pedestal  once  more  her  shattered  ideal  of  Hugh,  and 
published  the  Captain's  love  for  her.  It  was  joy 
that  agitated  her,  and  she  hardly  heard  him  beginning 
to  plead  his  own  cause.  A  look  and  a  single  word 
silenced  him.  She  never  knew  that  the  word  sen- 
tenced him  to  death.  Almost  directly,  hope  and  sus- 
pense being  over,  he  became  cordial  and  common- 
place, and  could  talk  cheerfully  with  Mrs.  DeLaunay 
when  that  clever  lady  entered.  Her  appearance  gave 
Regina  a  chance  to  escape  politely.  The  eyes  he 
sent  after  her  explained  to  Mrs.  DeLaunay  that  an 
interesting  and  sorrowful  event  had  occurred. 

"  So  Regina  means  to  marry  the  Captain,"  was  her 
secret  comment  as  she  proceeded  to  interest  the  law- 
yer in  her  newest  scheme  for  the  benefit  of  Saranac. 
To  Winthrop,  although  he  listened  and  criticized 
suavely,  her  talk  was  the  merest  chatter. 

"  Every  year  the  priest  has  a  fair,"  she  said,  "  and 
this  year  I  am  going  to  help  him  make  it  the  grandest 
of  successes." 

"  I  thought  you  had  done  with  the  humbug  of 
creeds." 

"  I  am  just  beginning  to  pay  attention  to  them," 
she  answered,  "  and  besides  what  has  a  fair  to  d  j  with 


creeds.     One  month  it's  the  priest,  and  the  next  the 
Odd  Fellow.     We  help  both  to  make  money." 

"  Money  can  always  be  found  around  a  creed." 

"  But  not  in  it  always.  You  know  Father  McManus 
as  well  as  I  do.  Pray  don't  be  bitter  when  the  helping 
of  a  man  like  that  is  concerned." 

"Oi,  if  it's  the  man—" 

"  Who  else  ?  Suppose  a  gruff,  callous  farmer  held 
his  place  ;  would  I  lift  a  finger  to  help  him  ?  Then 
tell  me  some  nice  things  to  do  to  help  this  pleasant 
and  hard  worked  priest.  I  have  been  made  a  sort  of 
superintendent.  I  must  have  some  curiosities  to  make 
up  fjr  lack  ot  variety  and  costliness." 

"  Exhibit  me  " 

"And  Captain  Sullivan."  she  adrled  slyly. 

"No,  he's  ordinary.  He's  a  success.  I  am  a  fail- 
ure." 

"  You  have  escaped  then  against  your  will  ?" 

"Oh,  very  much  against  it." 

"  What  a  consolation  to  know  that  in  breaking  your 
own  heart  you  have  spared  the  heart  of  your  friend." 

"  If  success  meant  the  smashing  of  his  heart  to 
bits,"  he  said  savagely,  "  I  would  not  regret  it.  And 
he  has  the  same  temper  in  this  matter." 

"  I  see  you  will  be  o*  no  use  in  the  fair." 

"  No,  I  will  all  my  usefulness  to  the  Captain.  By 
that  time  he  will  have  heart  enough  to  do  the  work  of 
two." 

"  This  girl  was  born  to  make  trouble,"  Mrs.  De- 
Launay  said  to  herself  as  Winthrop  went  off  growling. 
"The  sooner  she  marries  some  one  the  better.  If 
this  love  business  remains  in  suspense  long  I  shall  get 
no  help  out  of  these  people  for  my  table.  The  Cap- 
tain ought  to  propose  to  morrow." 


She  told  Captain  Sullivan  of  Wimhrop's  failure  sup 
posing  it  had  for  him  real  significance.  His  face 
clouded. 

"  I  had  supposed,"  he  said,  "  that  sooner  or  later 
their  marriage  would  be  a  sure  thing  " 

Mrs.  DeLaunay  was  mystified  at  his  words  and  ex- 
pression. Had  not  Winthrop  told  her  that  the  Cap- 
tain was  a  success  where  he  had  been  a  failure  ? 

"  Waat  are  you  frowning  about  ?"  she  said.  "  Is 
the  news  so  unexpected  and  startling  ?*' 

"  I  am  afraid  for  John,"  he  replied.  "  He  is  queer 
in  some  points,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  You  don't 
know  what  a  tremendous  sorrow  this  will  be  to  him. 
He  never  was  hopeful,  but  still  he  had  hope." 

She  found  herself  affected  by  his  unaccountable 
manner.  Successful  lovers  do  not  frown  on  hear- 
ing of  a  rival's  defeat,  become  anxious  over  the 
ill  effects  of  a  rejection,  and  openly  declare  their 
disappointment  at  their  own  success.  Someone 
was  making  a  mistake,  and  she  hoped  it  was  not 
Regina.  To  make  sure  she  besieged  Winthrop  in  his 
office  next  day  on  behalf  of  the  fair,  and  when  he  was 
thoroughly  annoyed  by  her  persistency  she  told  him 
what  the  Captain  had  said,  and  explained  the  cause 
of  her  mystification. 

"He  is  honest  and  cunning  both, '  said  Winthrop. 
"  It  is  true  that  he  expected  rny  success  and  had  no 
hopes  for  himself,  not  thinking  that  she  ever  would 
care  enough  for  him  to  marry  him.  And  he  had  wit 
enough  to  conceal  from  you  what  he  has  concealed 
from  all  but  her  since  he  was  conscious  of  it.  He 
has  reason  to  fear  for  me,  because  I  have  said  things 
to  him  at  times  wMch  he  cannot  understand.  It  is 


239 

only  I  that  have  made  the  mistake.     It  can  never  be 
remedied." 

The  explanation  was  rational,  but  she  thought  if 
Winthrop  could  have  seen  the  captain's  face  when  he 
spoke  to  her,  he  would  be  now  tempted  to  believe 
that  the  mistake  had  been  made  in  another  direction. 
She  did  not  say  outright  that  her  thought  was  in  favor 
of  the  captain's  heart  freedom.  It  would  not  do  to 
complicate  the  situation  ;  but  she  really  suspected 
that  Captain  Sullivan  had  never  once  thought  of  love 
or  marriage  in  Regina's  connection.  If  true  it  would 
be  mortifying  to  all  concerned. 

CHAPTER    XXV. 

OPEN    CONFESSION. 

Winthrop  was  incurably  se'fish.  His  fine  sense  of 
honor  was  no  hindrance  to  the  rugged  growth  of  his 
selfishness  which  had  its  proper  influence  on  his 
moral  character ;  we  look  for  consideration  in  people 
of  refined  tastes  ;  the  enthusiast  in  art,  whose  tears 
fall  at  the  grace  of  a  statue  and  the  delicate  coloring 
of  a  picture,  should  not  be  capable  of  wounding  his 
fellows ;  and  the  man,  whose  sense  of  honor  would 
send  him  to  death  smiling,  should  have  the  sweet  and 
unselfish  temper  of  a  saint.  But  a  violet  can  bloom 
in  the  shadow  of  a  muck  heap,  and  a  fine  sense  of 
honor  exist  in  the  midst  of  vices.  Winthrop  was  hon- 
orable as  far  as  he  thought  honor  should  go,  and  as 
selfish  as  an  intelligent,  warm-hearted  man  could  be. 
He  felt  some  remorse  for  his  treason  to  Hugh,  it 
offended  that  honor  which  he  had  guarded  for  yea-s 
with  pride.  But  in  his  plans  of  suicide  he  had  pity  for 
none  but  himself.  He  never  once  considered  his 


240 

trembling  and  anxious  father,  the  grief  which  would 
surely  befall  him  at  the  fate  of  his  only  child ;  nor 
the  reflection  that  would  be  cast  on  Regina,  whose  re- 
jection of  his  suit  had  led  him  to  death  !  He  thought 
of  nothing  but  ridding  himself  of  his  intolerable  pain, 
of  the  life  which  had  become  a  horror  to  him.  He  de- 
layed the  crime  for  one  reason  chiefly  :  it  would  not 
do  to  create  a  scene,  a  sensation,  a  scandal.  Ha  de- 
tested scenes.  He  studied  therefore  to  have  his  death 
happen  in  an  apparently  natural  manner. 

He  was  forced  to  hide  his  grief,  and  mask  his  inten- 
tions. The  fact  that  he  would  soon  be  dead  enabled 
him  to  assume  a  false  cheerfulness  which  imposed  on 
all  but  Hugh  Sullivan.  The  temptation  to  mope,  or 
to  surrender  himself  to  frenzy  was  checked,  if  not  re- 
moved, by  the  mental  sight  of  that  dead  body  whose 
heartache  was  forever  ended.  Why  grieve  now  over 
that  which  in  a  few  weeks  would  be  noth- 
ing. He  was  well  satisfied  with  his  com- 
fortable materialism.  He  wound  up  his  business 
without  hurry,  and  talked  of  a  trip  to  California  in 
the  interest  of  a  few  New  York  mine  owners.  His 
father  was  entirely  deceived,  closely  as  he  watched 
him.  John  even  had  the  hardihood  to  jest  before 
him  on  his  chances  of  winning  Regina's  hand ;  he 
would  grow  moody  and  hopeful  by  turns  j  and  ac- 
cepted his  father's  sympathy  precisely  as  in  the  good 
time  when  there  had  been  hope.  Nevertheless,  there 
were  days  when  his  grief  burst  the  unnatural  bonds, 
and  drove  him  to  madness  almost.  He  fled  then  to 
distant  towns  and  returned  only  when  the  frenzy  and 
its  traces  were  gone.  In  his  sleep  which  was  sound 
but  not  dreamless  he  went  over  the  trouble  which 


241 

had  come  to  him  and  enacted  the  scenes  of  hope  and 
expected  happiness  through  which  he  had  passed. 
So  little  did  his  approaching  death  affect  him  that  in 
these  moments  the  thought  of  it  occurred  only  to 
soothe  his  anguish.  It  was  in  this  way  his  father 
learned  the  misfortune  that  threatened  them.  He 
met  him  wandering  in  the  upper  hall  one  midnight, 
and  moaning  gently.  A  glance  told  the  father  that 
his  son  was  in  a  state  of  somnambulism.  When  he 
returned  to  his  room  old  David  followed  as  far  as  the 
door.  John  had  begun  to  talk. 

"  If  that  letter  had  never  been  written,"  he  said 
quite  dearly,  and  repeated  the  sentence  many  times 
with  heavy  sighs.  "  How  could  she  refuse  me,  when 
I  loved  her  as  he  never  can.  She — the  only  woman 
in  the  world  for  me !  What  pain  !"  At  this  he  groaned 
so  deeply  that  the  old  man  gave  a  low  cry.  "  But 
death  will  end  it,"  went  on  the  sleeper,  "  what  a  relief 
is  death,"  and  as  if  the  thought  soothed  him  he 
slipped  into  bed  with  a  prolonged  sigh.  His  father 
sat  beside  him  quietly  and  studied  his  face  in  despair. 
The  few  sentences  he  had  heard  might  mean  that 
his  boy  had  been  rejected  and  was  going  over  in  his 
s^ep  the  drama  of  his  disappointment ;  or  they  might 
simply  be  the  result  of  John's  anxiety  over  the  result 
of  his  suit.  Sitting  there  thinking  of  possibilities  the 
old  father  felt  the  fond  of  God  heavy  upon  him.  How 
much  was  he  to  blame  for  the  condition  in  which  this 
boy  found  himself  before  the  third  derade  of  his  life 
had  well  ended  He  remembered  how  often  he  had 
sat  thus  at  his  bedside  in  all  the  years  since  his  baby- 
hood. The  moulding  of  the  young  life  had  been  for 
twenty  years  entirely  in  his  own  hands.  But  he 


242 

had  known  little  of  the  moulding  process,  supposing 
that  his  son  would  grow  up  as  he  ha<l  grown  or 
better,  y  s,  much  better.  So  far  he  had  been  a  joy 
and  an  honor  to  him.  The  thought  that  from  this 
moment  he  might  look  to  see  him  brought  home 
dead,  disfigured  by  knife  or  bullet  or  long  days  in  the 
water,  was  terrible.  In  what  point  had  he  failed,  to 
bring  upon  his  son  such  a  destiny  ?  John  began  to 
talk  again,  but  this  time  indistinctly.  The  old  man 
recalling  a  certain  trick  of  his  own  boyhood,  took  the 
sleeper's  hand  and  began  to  smooth  it  gently,  fixing 
his  eyes  on  the  composed  face. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?"  he  said. 

"  Of  death,"  said  John  distinctly.  "  I  wish  I  could 
die  now,  but  of  course  no  one  must  know.  I  must 
wait." 

"  How  about  your  father?  Ic  will  kill  him  to  lose 
you." 

*  Death  is  better  for  us  all,"  said  the  sleeper  with 
a  slight  frown. 

"But  your  father  wants  life  and  you,"  urged  the 
old  man.  "  How  could  you  break  his  hea- 1  ? ' 

"  As  she  broke  mine.  My  heart  is  broken,"  and 
his  hand  went  to  his  side  in  pain,  the  sleeper  groan- 
ing. 

"  Then  you  are  bound  to  kill  yourself,  no  matter 
who  dies  on  your  coffin  ?  ' 

"Let  every  man  look  to  himself,"   answered  Jonn. 

"You  have  a  hard  heart,"  said  the  father.  "  You 
would  not  be  a  good  lover,  being  so  poor  a  son,  and 
you  deserved  to  Icse  that  girl.  She  stood  by  her 
father  always." 

**  So  she  did,"  the  sleeper   assented,    and    for   the 


243 

fiist  time  his  calm,  melancholy  face  grew  troubled. 
He  began  to  mutter  indistinct  Nothings  again.  Once 
more  the  father  urged  him  to  give  up  the  idea  of 
death. 

"  Never,"  said  John,  "  though  hell  opened." 

Here  he  began  to  show  signs  of  awakening,  and 
the  old  man  tottered  away  weeping,  afraid  to  have 
him  know  that  his  secret  crept  through  his  dreams 
and  revealed  itself.  He  talked  the  matter  over  the 
next  day  with  Hugh  and  learned  from  the  unwilling 
lips  of  the  Captain  the  story  of  John's  disappoint- 
ment. 

«»  Oh,  well,  that  settles  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "He 
raay  kill  himself  at  anytime.  You  knov  his  mind 
on  that  point  as  well  as  I  do,  Hugh  Sullivan.  I 
wonder  he  has  not  done  it  before  this.  What  is  de- 
laying him  ?'' 

"  I  don't  really  think,"  said  Hugh  dubiously,  "  he 
has  maJe  up  his  mind  to  suicide.  He  talks  of  a  trip 
to  California,  and  he  is  getting  his  business  ready  to 
be  able  to  get  away." 

"I  didn't  know  that.  He  won't  hang  himself  in 
Saranac  tl'en,  but  he  must  be  watched.  We  must 
make  ourselves  his  guards,  I  for  the  house,  and  you 
for  outdoors.  Of  course  we  can't  prevent  him  in  the 
long  run,  but  WJ  nvght  delay  it  until  his  senses  come 
back,  and  then  he  might  find  it  worth  while  living." 

O:d  David  spoke  in  a  hard,  business-like  raanasr, 
for  now  that  the  danger  was  made  certain  he  could 
face  it  with  desperate  courage,  and  scheme  to  avoid  it. 

"  We  must  be  careful  how  we  act,"  said  Hugh  ; 
"  he's  cne  that  doesn't  care  for  scenes,  and,  if  he  sus- 
pected, it  might  anger  him." 


244 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  think  I've 
been  too  careful  of  his  feelings,  and  didn't  talk  out  as 
I  should  have  at  the  right  time.  Hereafter  I  don't 
give  two  cents  for  his  feelings  if  by  hurting  them  I  can 
do  him  any  good.  He's  going  to  do  this  thing  on  the 
sly,  quiet  and  natural,  as  if  he  had  no  hand  in  it.  Now, 
when  I  get  a  chance  I'm  going  to  tell  him  fair  and 
square  that  if  he's  found  dead  anywhere  I'm  going 
to  hang  myself  He  wouldn't  like  to  be  made  ridicu 
lous  in  that  way." 

The  idea  was  acceptable  to  Hugh,  as  his  good  sense 
was  too  strong  to  let  him  accept  suicide  for  a  finish  ot 
a  love  affiir.  The  mysteries  of  soul  growth  had  never 
made  even  their  existence  known  to  him,  and  he  was 
unable  to  see  that  there  is  a  training  and  even  a  phil, 
osophy  which  properly  leads  to  suicide.  Hencefor- 
ward John  Winthrop  had  a  bodyguard,  and  so  efficient 
that  he  gave  it  the  slip  the  first  moment  a  frenzy  of 
rage  and  grief  came  upon  him  His  grief  woke  him 
up  at  midnight  and  sent  him  out  stealthily  to  shout 
and  rave  his  anguish  to  the  air.  He  was  g  me  an 
hour  when  old  Divid  discoveied  his  flight.  A  quiet 
search  through  the  house  and  gardens,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  his  outdoor  clothing  proved  that  he  was 
abroad.  There  were  no  trains  until  five  o'clock  He 
had  therefore  been  compelled  to  travel  afoot,  and  in 
a  fhort  time  the  father  had  Captain  Sullivan  out  of 
bed  started  in  pursuit. 

"  All  he  has  to  do  to  die  on  a  night  like  this,"  said 
old  Wiothrop,  "  is  to  take  a  dose  of  morphine  and  lie 
down  to  freeze." 

The  Captain  had  little  fear  of  this  calamity  if  Win- 
throp were  in  his  senses,  but  it  was  hard  to  say  what 


245 

fancies  ruled  his  train.  He  advised  old  David  to  Jet 
the  matter  right  itself,  for  search  would  annoy  John, 
— adv;ce  quite  thrown  away  upon  him.  To  calna  his 
excitement  Hugh  examined  the  shore  for  a  mile  or 
two,  and  went  out  on  the  ice  returning  to  visit  the 
fishing  hut  of  Sol  Tuttle.  He  saw  the  light 
from  its  single  window  a  long  way  off.  It  was  a 
primitive  affair,  nothing  more  than  a  box  with  a 
door,  a  single  pane  of  glass  for  a  window,  and  a 
stove  pipe  sticking  through  the  roof.  The  box  had  a 
hole  cut  in  its  floor,  another  hole  was  cut  in  the  ice, 
and  there  in  lazy  contentment  the  fisherman  sat  and 
hooked  or  speared  the  fish  that  came  within  reach. 
Hugh  took  a  peep  through  the  window  before  going 
to  the  door,  and  saw  John  sitting  within  at  his  ease. 
Sol  was  droning  some  story  in  his  ear,  but  the  listen- 
er's mind  was  far  away  from  it.  He  sat  with  a  line 
in  his  hand  watching  a  hole  in  the  ice,  as  if  the  tragedy 
of  the  fish  world  interested  him.  Hugh's  appearance 
gave  him  a  slight  shock,  for  he  felt  at  once  that  his 
design  upon  his  own  life  was  discovered.  They  were 
watching  and  following  him.  Bitter  indeed  it  was 
that  the  man  he  had  betrayed  should  be  standirg 
guard  over  his  broken  life,  preserving  it,  one  would 
think,  as  did  the  ancients  their  captives  to  honor  the 
triumph  of  the  conqueror.  Sullivan  did  not  seek  to 
hide  on  entering  the  hut,  but  before  Sol  he  would 
say  nothing, 

"  Looking  for  me,'  John  said  sourly. 

"Not  now,  I've  found  you.  The  oil  m-n  didn't 
kn'-w  whether  you  had  gone  fishing  or  fighting,  and  to 
satisfy  him  I  took  a  walk  around.  Much  fish,  Sol?" 

"  Toll'able,''  said  the  husband  of  Sa;rey  lazily. 


246 

"I  forgot  one  thing,"  observed  the  lawyer,  4'a  It  tie 
whiskey  for  a  night  like  this.  Go  up  to  my  house, 
and  t-11  my  father  to  send  me  down  a  bottle  of  the 
best " 

S  1  obeyed  mournfully. 

"There  wuza  time,''  he  said,  "w'en  sich  a  errant 
would  a  set  me  jumpin'.  But  sence  I  tuck  the  pledge 
it's  like  attendin'  one's  own  funeril,  an'  I  hate  to  go 
like  thunder.  But  that's  my  failure  o'  course,  an'  I 
go  with  pleasure  for  you  young  fellers,  which  sooner 
or  later  must  dry  up  same  as  me  if  ye  would  save 
yesselves  ' 

"Of  course,''  said  John,  when  they  were  alone, 
"  my  father  rooted  you  out  of  bed,  and  sent  you  look- 
ing /or  a  supposed  corpse  along  the  shore  ?  Well,  I 
have  made  a  fool  of  myself,  thinking  to  hide  such  a 
purpose  from  h;ru  Why  it  must  have  been  written 
all  over  me  when  an  old,  half  blind  man  could  gues  s 
it  like  this." 

"You  gave  it  away  in  your  sleep,"  said  Hugh."  He 
heard  you  talking  of  it  at  midnight.  You  might  as 
well  give  it  up  altogether  now  unless  you  want  to 
kill  him  off  wilh  anxiety,  and  have  the  town  talking 
and  laughing  at  you.  Besides  it  isn't  fair  to  Miss 
DeLaunay  to  mark  her  life  w  th  such  a  thing  She 
would  always  feel  as  if  she  had  a  hand  in  it." 

It  grated  fiercely  on  Winthrop's  pride  to  be  talked 
to  in  this  fashion,  but  nothing  else  could  be  expected 
from  his  friend.  And  it  hurt  him  much  to  think  that 
he  had  never  once  considered  Regina  and  how  his 
deats  would  reflect  on  her  any  more  than  he  had  con- 
sidered his  father,  and  in  a  former  instance  his  friend. 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,"  he  said  impatiently ;  "  the  fit  is 


247 

gone  by,  and  I  s^all  live  until  the  earth  is  tired  of  me, 
and  without  duplicity,  too.  You  never  knew  the  trick 
1 1  lay*  d  on  you.  I  must  settle  this  business  once  for 
all  Read  that  letter  carefully." 

Hugh  read  his  own  letter  of  the  previous  year,  and 
read  it  easily,  then  cried  out  in  surprise,  and  read  it 
again.  It  was  his  without  doubt. 

"  How  could  I  have  written  that  thing,"  he  said. 
"  Was  it  through  this  you  got  acquainted  with  the  La 
Rorbe  trouble  ?  It  beats  me  " 

Winthrop  explained  how  the  telltale  paragraph  was 
written,  and  left  Hugh  in  wonder. 

"Of  course,  that  makes  it  plain,"  said  the  Captain, 
"  and  then  I  was  accustomed  to  tell  you  everything,  and 
to  have  no  secrets  from  you,  and  it  slipped  out  natural." 

Although  this  affectionafe  remark  was  made  as  a 
m^re  sf  atement  without  a  tone  of  sentimental  feeling, 
it  went  straight  to  Winthrop's  heart. 

"  But  you  ought  to  know  how  I  used  it,"  he  said. 
'*  I  was  a 'raid  Regina  DeLaunay  thought  too  much 
of  you  at  one  time,  that  she  was  making  a  sort  of  hero 
out  of  you,  and  I  placed  the  letter  in  her  way.  She 
read  it  and  was  disgusted  with  you." 

Hugh  laughed  heartily. 

"  You  were  served  just  right  when  you  lost  her  after 
such  a  lawyer's  trick  as  that,"  he  said.  "  I  know 
you  had  it  in  you  to  do  it.  Confess  now,  didn't  you 
arrange  to  get  Amedee  drunk  the  first  day  he  came 
to  town,  knowing  how  things  would  turn  out." 

"  No.  Bat  I  knew  if  he  were  allowed  to  enter  the 
town  free  and  happy,  he  would  do  as  he  did." 

"  Both  tricks  of  the  same  color.  And  what  good 
did  you  get  out  of  'em  ?" 


548 

'"  Only  evil  and  sorrow.  That  cursed  Amedee  gave 
away  t^e  letter  trick  to  Regina.  I  am  glad  he  is  dead. 
I  a-  k  your  pardon  for  the  way  I  treated  you  ' 

"D^n't  mention  it/'  said  the  Captain. 

'•'  Great  gods,"  said  John  Winthrop  to  himself  as  he 
looked  at  his  chum's  impassive  face  and  indifferent 
air,  "  he  takes  this  treason  as  a  thing  to  smile  at,  and 
makes  me  ashamed  for  trembling  at  the  confession 
of  it." 

"  I  don't  think  this  letter  business  hurt  you  much 
with  Miss  DeLaunay,"  Hugh  began  in  a  kindly  way. 

"  I  know  it  didn't,"  Winthrop  broke  in.  "  Had  I 
shot  her  father  and  burned  the  town  it  would  have 
made  no  difference,  since  she  was  in  love  with  you, 
with  your  acting  in  Ingomar,  with  your  generous  de- 
fence of  her  father,  with  your  uniform,  with  your  big 
boat,  with  your  coolness  and  courage  the  nignt  the 
steamer  went  ashore  at  Westport.  She  admitted  as 
much  to  me  the  other  day.  It  maddened  me  that 
night  to  hear  her  in  her  sleep  call  you  by  name  as  if 
she  were  already  your  wife.  Of  course  the  letter 
cooled  her  affection  for  a  time,  but  now  it  is  stronger 
than  ever  as  you  know." 

Had  Winthrop 's  attention  been  elsewhere  than 
with  the  fishes  he  would  have  seen  that  Hugh  did  not 
know.  That  hardy  young  man,  who  took  his  friend  s 
treason  as  the  most  venial  of  sins,  and  could  see  his 
big  boats  run  up  on  dry  land  without  other  mental 
worry  than  additional  presence  of  mind,  turned  red, 
purple,  green  and  white  while  John  was  speaking,  and 
remained  white  at  the  end  He  had  intended  to  say 
that  Regina  was  not  yet  lost  to  Winthrop,  but  he  did 
not  say  it.  His  eyes  sho.ie  like  stars  out  of  his  pale 


449 

face,  and  his  heart  beat  loud.  He  knew  very  quickly 
what  was  the  matter,  even  though  he  had  never  suf- 
fered such  emotion  before.  Not  for  one  instant  dur- 
ing this  whole  year  had  he  dreamed  of  love  for  Regina 
or  marriage  with  her.  She  was  not  for  blunt  sailors 
like  h'm.  But  he  had  admired  her  beautv,  her  good 
sense,  her  courage,  her  strong  high  spirit,  he  had 
thought  in  his  heart  that  such  would  be  the  wife  he 
would  one  day  choose  ;  and  this  plain  true  fact  of  her 
love  for  him  burst  in  upon  his  soul  as  light  once  burst 
in  upon  creation,  and  gave  form  and  beauty  to  the 
world  veiled  in  darkness.  He  was  dizzy  and  sad  for 
an  instant,  as  he  comprehended  suddenly  for  the  first 
time  what  this  old  friend  of  his  was  suffering.  If  this 
light  went  out  of  his  life  now  he  would  find  the  pain 
bitter  to  bear.  But  with  God's  good  help,  and  the 
man's  pious  heart  turned  gratefully  to  God  always,  it 
would  never  go  out  again  1 

The  suspicions  of  sharp-witted  Mrs.  DeLaunay  had 
been  correct,  Captain  Sullivan  had  never  thought  of 
Regina ;  and  the  sensitiveness  and  emotional  weakness 
of  Wmthrop  had  waked  the  hearts  of  these  two,  and 
had  driven  the  poor  fellow  into  the  very  measures 
which  for  his  own  sake  he  should  have  avoided.  The 
two  men  sat  there  in  silence,  one  in  the  depths  of  pain 
the  other  on  the  heights  of  joy  until  Sol  Tuttle  opened 
the  door  with  an  uncertain  hand,  and  staggered  in 
with  the  bottle  of  whiskey  in  his  pocket.  He  bad  the 
intention  and  a  strong  desire  to  say  something,  but 
his  powers  of  speech  were  gone.  So  was  the  smooth 
old  liquor  which  had  once  filled  the  bottle. 

"  And  it  was  twenty  years  old,"  said  John  regret- 
fully, as  the  messenger  slid  to  the  floor,  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE   FAIR. 

Mrs.  DeLaunay  was  enjoying  herself  as  President 
of  the  annual  church  fair,  whose  plump  receipts  made 
life  on  the  mission  tolerable  for  the  parish  priest. 
The  om>e  did  not  of  itself  confer  much  honor  or  re- 
sponsibility, but  her  energy  soon  made  it  the  very 
source  of  honor  and  centre  of  interest  while  the  agony 
was  on.  Saranac  braced  itself  for  the  fair  as  athletes 
do  for  a  tug  of  war.  It  had  many  of  the  features 
peculiar  to  a  mild  epidemic ;  everybody  suffered  at 
the  same  time  and  in  the  same  way  ;  and  all  hoped 
to  get  compensation  some  day  in  heaven  or  in  a  short- 
ened purgatory.  The  priest  announced  it  each  year 
in  one  form,  for  he  had  a  good  sense  of  humor ;  the 
receipts  this  year,  dear  brethren,  are  certain  to  be 
less  than  needed,  and  the  trustees  think  the  ladies 
should  hold  a  fair ;  I  suggested  other  means  of  raising 
this  money  to  the  ladies  themselves,  but  they  would 
not  listen ;  t^eir  clamor  for  a  fair  has  grown  so  loud 
that  I  can  only  surrender  to  the  popular  demand ; 
therefore  the  ladies  will  meet  after  Mass  in  the  vestry 
to  take  action. 

Mrs.  DeLaunay  happened  to  be  in  the  church  that 
morning,  and  took  the  speech  seriously.  She  went 
in  with  the  few  desperate  women  who  knew  there  was 
no  escape  from  the  conscription  and  so  they  saved 
their  pride  by  volunteering.  Her  request  to  be  made 


25' 

an  associate  was  answered  by  making  her  president 
of  t^e  managing  committee,  and  honorary  head  of  the 
Fair.  The  other  ladies  congratulated  her  afterwards 
so  warmly  that  one  could  infer  their  joy  at  escaping 
the  honor. 

u  What  am  I  to  do  ?"  she  asked. 

"  A  little  of  everything,"  the  priest  said.  "  You 
must  find  women  to  take  charge  of  the  tables,  to  can- 
vass with  the  books,  and  to  enter  contests  for  one 
thing  or  another.  Then  you  must  see  to  the  hall,  and 
its  donations  when  the  fair  is  ready  to  open." 

"  Very  simple  indeed,"  she  commented  and  the 
priest  smiled  as  one  might  who  had  taken  his  degree 
in  fairs.  She  remembered  that  smile  afterwards  and 
used  it  herself  when  amateurs  spoke  of  the  simplicity 
of  managing  a  fair.  Canvassers  were  the  first  neces- 
sity, and  she  set  out  to  find  them ;  but  had  she  the 
plague  the  younger  women  could  not  have  fled  from 
her  more  shamelessly.  She  became  on  the  instant 
a  monster  whom  no  one  dared  meet.  They  were 
caught  in  the  end  when  the  priest  came  to  her  aid, 
but  while  they  surrendered  she  was  accused  of  their  en- 
slavement. The  art  of  selecting  the  proper  canvassers 
enrantured  the  astute  lady.  It  was  not  simply  a  mat- 
ter of  catching  your  fish  before  frying  it,  one  had  to 
be  particular  about  the  fish.  Church  people  had  a 
rare  instinct  for  the  sport.  The  very  perfection  of  a 
canvasser  was  a  girl  of  twenty  who  dressed  well  an  1 
wore  soft,  silky,  shimmering  hair ;  whose  eyes  were 
magnetic  and  drooping,  voice  low  and  murmurous, 
gesture  rare  and  all-conquering;  who  approached  a 
victim  like  a  dove  and  stripped  him  with  the  ferocity 
of  a  catamount ;  yet  departing  left  behind  a  luminous 


252 

perfumed  peace  as  of  an  angel  visitant.  It  was  sur- 
prising how  many  were  found  with  these  qualifications 
in  one  small  town ;  no  less  than  twenty  persuasive 
maidens  went  forth  willingly  to  coax  the  dimes  from 
the  Saranac  people,  all  with  shining  hair  and  down- 
cast eyes,  all  determined  to  collect  the  money  required 
for  the  fair.  They  were  not  well  up  to  the  standard, 
of  course,  yet  none  were  far  below  it.  Mrs.  De- 
Launay  found  them  marvels  of  taste  and  grace 
and  praised  them  to  the  whole  world.  They  ac- 
cepted her  praise  meekly,  and  spared  her  none  the 
less.  By  the  time  they  had  wheedled  fifty  dollars  out 
of  her  purse  her  admiration  was  exhausted. 

As  a  student  of  human  nature  she  felt  tnat  even 
this  price  was  too  high  for  a  single  lesson.  Yet  she 
let  them  loose  on  helpless  Saranac  without  pity,  and 
Saranac  reared  on  its  hind  legs,  pawed  out  with  its 
front  feet,  raised  its  voice  to  heaven  in  hearty  protest 
against  the  sirens.  They  were  not  to  be  shaken  off. 
The  first  fair  in  Saranac  had  started  a  vendetta  which 
was  never  to  end  until  all  concerned  were  exiled  or 
dead.  The  twenty  canvassers  remembered  every 
woman  who  in  former  years  had  flourished  a  fair  book 
in  the  town  and  had  taxed  their  brethren  or  their 
friends  These  were  the  first  victims.  Their  cries 
wera  recognized  night  and  day  as  the  money  was  torn 
from  them,  they  could  be  seen  flying  through  the 
streets  closely  but  gently  pursued  by  them  of  the 
shimmering  hair  and  the  downcast  eyes,  and  their 
pallid  expression  betrayed  for  days  afterward  the  suf- 
fering inflicted  upon  them. 

Next  the  twenty  turned  upon  the  business  men  of 
the  town,  the  grocers  and  dry  goods  men,  the  lawyers 


253 

and  politicians,  the  officials  and  dignitaries.  The  per- 
secution raged  heaviest  against  these  classes,  but  they 
bought  a  shortening  of  the  agony  by  prompt  and 
gloomy  payment  of  the  tax,  which  in  turn  was  taken 
out  of  the  church  on  the  first  opportunity.  Mrs.  De- 
Launay  did  not  wait  to  examine  the  other  ravages  of 
her  twenty  aids ;  she  felt  satisfied  they  would  rend 
their  relatives  and  one  another  in  the  end,  that  not  a 
farthing  would  escape  them.  She  had  to  choose  the 
ladies  who  would  take  charge  of  the  tables  or  booths 
at  the  fair.  There  were  six  tables  and  fifteen  appli- 
cations, and  she  appealed  for  guidance  to  the  priest. 
He  looked  over  the  names,  and  marked  off  the  im- 
possible people. 

'•  From  the  others  make  a  choice,"  he  said.  "  They 
are  all  good  but  their  motives  have  much  to  do  with 
their  usefulness.''  Mrs.  DeLaunay  liked  to  sift  mo- 
tives. The  sifcing  process  in  this  instance  gave  her 
six :  Mrs.  Cooney  had  a  table  last  year  and  was  so 
much  outshone  by  Mrs.  Mooney  that  the  disgrace 
could  be  wiped  out  only  by  Mrs.  Cooney  overthrow- 
ing Mrs.  Mooney  this  year ;  Miss  Marechal  had  six 
different  dresses  with  which  to  pose  for  twelve  nights 
before  an  artistic  booth  ribboned  to  match  each  dress; 
Mrs.  Cloran  was  a  widow,  a  grass  widow  the  doubters 
said,  and  she  wanted  social  recognition ;  Miss 
O'Meara's  father  kept  a  saloon  and  she  needed  all 
such  things  as  fair-booths,  membership  in  societies, 
and  the  like  to  keep  respectable  ;  Mis.  Sweeney 
washed  for  a  living  and  wanted  to  let  people  see  a 
washerwoman  was  as  good  as  the  best ;  and  Mary 
Lorty,  old  and  ugly,  desired  to  do  a  little  for  pure  love 
of  the  church  and  this  special  parish.  As  she  was  quite 


254 

incapable  for  a  post  of  honor  they  gave  her  the  office 
of  wiping  dishes  in  the  kitchen.  When  the  appoint- 
ments were  made  Mrs.  DeLaunay  had  eight  mortal 
enemies  and  sharp-eyed  critics  to  contend  with,  and 
their  arrows  pursued  her  until  the  fair  became  a  mere 
memory 

The  contests  for  a  doll  and  a  gold  watch  were 
started  without  difficulty,  with  suspicious  ease  the 
priest  thought.  Two  little  girls  were  to  contest  the 
doll  and  two  men  the  watch  Mr.  Tim  Grady  offered 
himself  as  a  contestant  aid  proposed  the  name  of 
Motsieur  Narcisse  McCa'thy  as  his  opponent.  He 
did  not  mention  his  reasons  for  voluntarily  entering  a 
contest  which  most  men  avoided  when  they  could. 
He  simply  boasted  of  his  ability  to  win  that  watch 
against  Monsieur  McCarthy  or  any  of  his  breed,  and 
he  wanted  the  chance  to  prove  the  boast.  This  chal- 
lenge interested  the  town  for  a  few  days,  and  forced 
McCarthy  to  take  it  up  as  proudly  and  arrogantly  as 
it  had  been  thrown  down.  Mr.  Grady  thu>  entered  the 
public  view  once  more  as  a  popular  favorite,  a  place 
he  had  not  held  since  the  lawn-party  ;  it  was  his 
natural  place  before  his  humiliation ;  he  had  almost 
taken  oath  to  hold  it  nov  by  making  a  contest  which 
would  be  a  Saranac  tradition;  and  he  soured  the 
proud  and  frugal  soul  of  Monsieur  McCarthy  by  his 
loud  decoration  to  sink  five  hundred  dollars  in  the 
wat:h.  The  town  applauded.  Mrs,  DeLaunay  flat- 
tered him.  The  contest  for  the  watch  absorbed  all 
interest.  Nevertheless  the  doll  contest  was  properly 
arranged  with  the  children  of  two  leading  politicians 
as  contestants.  The  priest  thought  it  quite  a  stroke 
of  diplomacy  to  bring  politics  into  the  contest  and 


255 

complimented  the  President.  They  did  not  know  the 
politicians.  Tiiese  gentlemen  met  after  the  contest 
had  began  and  the  richer  said  to  the  poorer: 

"  There  is  no  ir.e  in  spending  money  on  the  thing. 
I  want  to  make  a  deal  with  you.  Let  me  have  the 
doll,  and  I'll  stand  the  bill.  We'll  put  it  at  one  hun- 
dred dollars.  The  winner  goes  down  for  fifty  one  the 
loser  for  forty  nine,  and  the  thing's  settled  right  here 
What  d'ye  say?" 

The  poorer  said  many  things  expressive  of  his  will- 
ingness to  get  out  of  a  scrape  for  nothing,  even  with 
the  r  restige  of  defeat  for  his  child.  The  preparations 
for  the  fair  was  now  in  full  swing,  and  Saranac  was  in 
a  state  of  fever.  Mrs.  DeLaunay  could  not  remem- 
ber its  like.  The  novelty  of  it  never  wore  away  from 
her.  Fifty  chosen  souls  selected  by  herself  were  now 
every  day  goading  the  people  to  madness ;  demand 
ing  gifts  for  the  tables,  dainties  for  the  restaurant  and 
hard  money  for  the  treasury  ;  with  effects  of  profanity, 
bad  temper,  slander,  and  abuse  that  kept  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  village  in  a  constant  glow.  The  tongues 
of  the  gossips  went  day  and  night  like  hard  pressed 
thrashers  in  harvest  time ;  the  friends  of  the  fair  had 
to  enjoy  spotless  reputations  to  escape  censure. 

'•  But  it's  life,"  said  Mrs.  DeLaunay  to  her  family 
"  It's  the  nearest  approach  to  the  wickedness  and  dash 
of  a  big  city  that  Saranac  has  ever  shown  me.  You 
must  get  into  it,  Regina.  It  will  do  you  good." 

"I  am  in  it,  mamma,''  said  Regina  very  composedly. 
"  Captain  Sullivan  and  I  are  to  revive  the  theatri- 
cals." 

"  The  very  thin  g,"  cried  mamma,  "  and  you  shall 
put  your  father  and  me  in  at  least  one  cast.  How- 


256 

ever— why  did  I  not  think  of  it  before  ?  You  shall 
have  the  decorations.  The  Captain  is  the  very  man 
for  the  decorations.  I  saw  him  use  a  hammer  like  a 
born  carpenter." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  John  Winthrop,"  said  her 
husband  peevishl),  "isn't  he  good  on  decorations  ?" 

"  He's  in  the  West  on  business  I  heard,"  said  Re- 
gina  as  calmly  as  before,  "  and  will  not  be  back  for 
months.  Mines,  I  think,  or  something  of  that  kind." 

"  Mines  in  midwinter,"  said  he  laughing,  "  that's  a 
story." 

But  there  was  no  further  comment  on  the  incident, 
and  Regina  had  told  all  she  knew  about  it  just  as 
Hugh  had  told  it  to  her.  He  might  have  told  her 
more,  but  she  had  suddenly  lost  interest  in  Winthrop 
under  the  ardent  glances  of  the  confident  Captain, 
who  had  spoken  the  last  word  to  John  as  he  left  Sara- 
nac  and  had  comforted  the  father  ever  since  in  his 
loneliness.  Old  David  had  failed  visibly  after  his 
son's  going. 

"  I  shan't  ever  see  him  again,"  he  said  to  Hugh 
often,  "  but  that's  better'n  to  see  the  last  of  him  the 
way  I  feared.  Now  he'll  keep  his  promise,  he  was 
always  true  to  his  word,  he  won't  die  until  he  hears 
I'm  dead.  By  that  time  who  knows  what'U  happen. 
I'm  prayin'  for  two  things :  if  he's  got  to  die  soon  that 
a  fever  or  an  accident  may  take  him  off  without  his 
fault,  or  that  he'll  get  another  grip  on  life,  and  live 
right  on  for  the  love  of  it.  I  don't  want  my  boy  to 
go  into  the  next  world,  even  if  he  doesn't  believe  in 
it,  after  committing  suicide.  What  do  you  folks  teach 
about  going  that  way  ?" 

"  Why,"  said  Hugh  embarrassed,"  you'll  have  to  see 


257 

Tim  Grady  about  that.  I'm  poor  in  catechism,  and 
I  never  heard  much  about  it.  But  it's  like  dying 
with  all  your  sins  on  you,  and  no  repentance." 

"  You! II  never  go  that  way,"  said  David  with  a  feel- 
ing of  envy  for  Mr.  Sullivan.  "  None  of  you  Catho- 
lics do  with  all  your  nonsense.  No,  not  even  that 
God-forsaken  Amede'e,  thrown  like  a  dog  into  Texas, 
where  by  right  he  ought  to  have  been  shot  or  hanged; 
he  comes  home  to  die  with  his  mother  and  the  priest, 
to  be  buried  among  the  best  with  all  his  sins  forgiven; 
and  my  boy,  that  was  brought  up  respectably — well, 
there's  no  use  talking  about  it.  One  man  goes  this 
way,  another  that.  It's  laid  out  for  us,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  for  Catholics,"  said  Hugh. 

"  No  confound  'em,  not  for  Catholics,"  repeated 
David.  "  Ah,  if  I  could  have  foreseen  these  days, 
John  would  have  been  brought  up  a  Catholic.  You 
get  a  pile  of  comfort  out  of  your  religion.  Anyone 
can  see  that.  Don't  you  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  I  ever  got  much  for  I  never  needed 
any  so  far.  But  I've  seen  them  that  have,  and  I  know 
when  it's  needed  it's  there  for  me.  With  us  every- 
thing is  certain,  you  know." 

"  That's  it,"  said  David  with  animation.  "  Certain 
is  the  word.  There's  no  miserable  doubt  like  what  I 
suffer  from.  You  know  where  you're  going  and  why 
and  what's  going  to  happen.  I've  read  some  about 
it.  And  you  believe  your  prayers  will  be  answered. 
Your  sins  are  all  forgiven  before  you  go,  with  your 
sacraments  and  things.  I  must  talk  to  Tim  Grady 
about  it.  There's  nothing  like  certainty  when  the 
grave  is  near." 

There  was  a  long  silence  then,  for  Hugh  Sulliran 


2S8 

could  not  talk  theology  of  any  sort  with  comfort,  and 
Winthrop  was  plainly  anxious  to  give  vent  to  feelings 
which  troubled  him  vaguely  and  which  needed  a  sym- 
pathetic ear. 

"  Tim  Grady  can  tell  you  everything,"  was  the  way 
Hugh  got  out  of  an  awkward  position.  There  was 
little  time  for  theology  just  then.  The  fair  had  open- 
ed with  a  rattle  and  bang,  and  its  officials  could  think 
of  nothing  else.  For  twelve  nights  they  would  have 
to  endure  the  misery  of  late  hours  and  excitement. 
Aching  hearts  like  old  David's  would  have  to  see  to 
their  own  aches  in  the  meantime.  The  town  hall  was 
the  seat  of  the  fair,  and  under  the  skilful  hands  of  the 
decorators  it  had  become  presentable.  Country  vil- 
lages have  little  to  decorate  with,  but  Regina  and  the 
Captain  had  collected  unlimited  bunting  and  cedar 
from  the  winter  woods,  and  had  produced  patriotic, 
artistic,  and  natural  effects,  sufficient  to  make  the  na- 
tives stare.  These  heavy  souls  went  open  mouthed 
through  the  green  arches  into  the  restaurant,  the 
shooting-gallery,  the  side-shows,  the  booths,  and 
looked  out  into  the  main  room  as  if  from  a  wood 
bower  into  a  clearing.  It  cost  only  ten  cents  to  see 
all  this  beauty  and  to  be  badgered  by  the  canvassers, 
but  it  cost  a  round  sum  to  see  "  the  hull  show  "  after 
one  got  inside. 

In  the  shooting-gallery  where  a  rosy-cheeked  Robin 
Hood  presided  over  the  air-guns,  three  shots  at  an 
American  Indian  cost  five  cents ;  three  shrieks  from 
the  said  Indian  entitled  the  lucky  marksmen  to  a 
cigar  whose  smoke  smelled  of  the  plague.  The  art 
gallery  was  in  charge  of  a  siren  whose  eloquence 
shamed  the  manager  of  a  dime  museum ;  she  needed 


259 

all  her  language  to  do  a  profitable  business,  since  one 
inspection  of  her  junk  collection  was  too  much  for 
the  simplest.  Saranac  was  highly  amazed  at  the  new 
features  Mrs.  DeLaunay  had  put  into  the  fair.  The 
young  ladies  in  the  various  departments  were  dressed 
like  prim  Puritans,  and  the  ladies  in  the  booths  in 
colonial  style.  There  was  a  Turk  at  the  door  of  the 
menagerie,  a  Delmonico  waiter  in  the  restaurant,  and 
an  Uncle  Tom  at  the  the  ticket  cfiVe  of  the  minstrel 
show ;  Mother  Goose  went  round  with  the  grab-bag 
and  a  gipsy  told  wonderful  fortunes.  The  restaurant 
was  a  bower  of  peace  and  beauty,  and  its  Delmonico 
waiter  moved  grandly  about  to  the  tinkling  of  a 
music  box,  faithfully  copying  his  model  even  to  the 
securing  of  tips.  When  one  had  completed  the  circle 
of  entertainment  provided  for  him,  no  matter  how 
slim  his  intentions,  he  was  out  a  round  dollar.  It 
took  Saranac  three  nights  to  discover  the  fact. 

Mrs.  Sullivaa  attended  the  fair  on  the  night  chosen 
for  the  production  of  the  play  in  which  the  entire  De- 
Launay family  took  part. 

"  Did  you  like  it  ?  "  asked  her  daughter  on  her  re- 
turn. 

"  Maybe  I  did  an'  maybe  I  didn't,''  she  answered. 
"  There  wor  some  things  no  dacint  person  'ud  like, 
an'  thin  agin  there  wor  things  mighty  plasin'  an' 
funny.  Fairs  are  pritty  much  like  the  world,  betwixt 
an'  between,  some  good  an'  some  bad  in  'em,  an' 
that's  why  people  likes  'em  so  much,  I  belave.  Mickey 
Moran  took  the  tickets  at  the  door,  an'  yed  die  to 
hear  the  bladgin'  of  him.  He  hasn't  had  an  office, 
good  or  bad,  since  he  was  supervisor,  and  the  way  he 
rut  up  wid  the  poor  people  was  awful.  He  wasfightin' 


260 

wicl  every  wan  ov  'em.  Whin  I  put  in  me  quarther 
for  a  ticket, 

*  Is  this  a  good  quarther,'  sez  he. 

'  Faith,'  sez  I, '  it's  so  long  since  ye  had  wan  o'  yer 
own,  I  don't  believe  ye  cud  tell,'  sez  I. 

An'  widout  another  word  he  drops  his  impidence, 
an'  hands  me  a  ticket.  Oh,  he  knows  me." 

'•  He  ought  to  after  that,"  said  her  daughter  in  an 
offended  tone. 

u  Well,  haven't  I  a  right  to  defend  meself,''  said  tbe 
old  lady,  answering  the  tone,  "  an'  wud  I  let  wan  o' 
the  Morans  put  an  insult  upon  me  afore  the  whole 
world.  You  might,  bekase  ye're  half  Frinch,  but  I'm 
Irish.  Whin  I  got  into  the  hall  sure  the  sates  were 
all  down  an'  every  wan  o'  thim  taken.  They  wor 
goin'  to  have  a  play.  How  well  ye  didn't  tell  me 
that  afore  I  got  ready  to  go." 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  go  if  I  did." 

'*  To  be  sure  not.  Such  a  play — but  wait  till  I 
come  to  it.  While  I  was  standin'  there  like  a  fool 
wid  a  crowd  o'  boys  that  had  no  sates  along  comes 
Father  McManus." 

"  Ye  have  no  sate,"  says  he. 

"  I'm  no  worse  off  than  many's  an  other,"  says  I. 

"  Well  come  along  now  an'  I'll  get  ye  a  good  place," 
says  he,  and  up  the  aisle  he  marched  me  afore  them 
all,  an'  planted  me  like  a  queen  in  the  first  row.  I 
was  that  proud  of  it  I  couldn't  see  a  thing  for  tin 
minute?.  Whin  I  got  back  me  sinses  the  play  was 
goin'  on.  'Twas  a  wild  kind  ov  a  thing  calkd  the 
Octhroon,  an'  who  was  in  it,  d'ye  mind  but  me  brave 
Hugh  an'  the  whole  DeLaunay  family.  Pon  me  sowl, 
'twas  a  sight  to  see  Mrs.  DeLaunay  an'  her  husband 


26 1 

bowin'  an'  talkin'  an'  runnin'  an  an'  afF  as  if  they  wor 
in  their  oven  house  at  home.  An'  Regina  looked  as 
sweet  as  an  angel.  But  that  bucko  Hugh  spiled  it  all 
makin'  lo/e  to  her.  Divil  a  such  love-makin'  ever  I 
heerd  tell  of.  He  went  on  his  knees  to  her  an'  he 
kissed  her  hand,  an'  he  fanned  her  whin  she  fainted, 
an'  he  talked  sweet  till  the  boys  in  the  gallery  began 
to  shout  an'  the  priest  had  to  quiet  'em.  An'  the 
worst  of  it  all,  Julia,  was  that  he  looked  as  if  he 
meant  it.  D'ye  think,  now  that  John  Winthrop's 
gone,  Hugh  'd  have  any  idea  o'  makin'  up  to  her." 

"  What  did  the  people  say  about  it  ?"  was  the  eva- 
sive reply. 

"  They  said  'twas  the  most  nathural  actin'  they  ever 
saw,  an'  ould  Mother  Two-and-Six  put  in  her  tongue 
to  say  there  wor  more  nathure  than  actin'  in  it.  An' 
faith,  she's  not  far  wrong,  I'm  thinkin' ;  though  her 
tongue  carries  farther  than  her  piety.  I'll  talk  to 
him  to  morrow  about  it.  Well,  thin,  the  play  wound 
up  wid  a  big  nagur  of  an  Indian  shootin'  a  man  an'  the 
chairs  wor  taken  out  an'  I  med  the  rounds  ov  every- 
thing. Dr.  Crowley  took  me  through  'em  all,  an'  paid 
me  way.  I  saw  the  minsthrels,  an'  the  menagerie,  an' 
the  art  gallerey;  I  took  a  grab  out  o'  the  grab  bag, 
haulin'  out  the  biggest  thing  I  could  lay  me  hands  on, 
an'  it  took  us  an  hour  unwindin'  the  paper  to  get  at 
a  match ;  I  had  me  fortune  towld  that  marriage  was 
in  me  house  ag'in  ;  I  ate  three  kinds  o'  crame  in  the 
atin'-room,  an'  knew  me  own  out  o'  the  three.  An' 
they  had  a  little  music-box  playin'  there  that  soft  ye'd 
think  ye  wor  atin'  it  wid  the  crame." 

"  I  suppose  everybody  was  there,"  said  Mrs.  La« 
jeunesse. 


262 

"Ay,  an'  everybody's  relations.  I  had  a  bow  from 
Mrs.  DeLaunay  afore  I  left — musha,  but  she's  the 
fine  figure  of  a  woman,  head  and  shouldhers  over  'em 
all.  An'  Regina  shook  hands  with  me  kind  o'  shy  an' 
sad  poor  thing.  An'  every  girl  that  had  a  book  kem 
up  for  me  to  sign,  an'  I  signed  every  wan,  for  ye 
couldn't  get  out  ov  it  they  wor  that  bowld.  An' 
Misther  McCarthy  spint  tin  cints  on  me  for  sody 
wather,  and  it  roost  bruk  his  heart  to  part  with  so 
much  at  wanst;  but  I  med  up  for  it  by  givin'  a  dollar 
to  his  contist.  But  Tim  Grady  bate  'em  all  for 
grandher  an'  cheek.  There  he  was  dhressed  to  kill, 
as  thick  as  molasses  wid  the  poorest,  an'  Mrs.  De. 
Launay,  an'  everyone ;  an'  tillin  the  crowd  he  had  five 
hundhred  dollars  to  dhrop  in  the  contist ;  an'  ye  cud 
see  Frinchy  McCarthy  turn  green  about  the  lips  whin 
any  wan  repated  the  same  to  him.  It  was  a  great 
night  anyhow  for  me,  an'  I  hope  the  priest  '11  make  a 
handful  o'  money  out  of  it." 

"  Do  you  think  Mr.  Grady  will  win  the  watch  ?" 

"Not  a  doubt  of  id.  That  ould  man  never  yet  was 
baten  by  livin'  sowl  except  Mrs  DeLaunay." 

Mr.  Tim  Grady  had  no  doubt  of  his  success  at  the 
Fair  polls,  though  he  grumbled  at  the  loss  of  time  old 
David  Winthrop  caused  him.  Hugh  Sullivan  offered 
to  canvass  for  him  while  Winthrop  claimed  his  ser- 
vices. 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what's  troubling  the  old  man  ?' 
Hugh  asked. 

Mr.  Grady  shook  his  head  in  the  old  prophetic  fash- 
ion. 

"  I  know  but  I  won't  tell  until  the  right  moment," 
he  replied,  "  then  youll  be  more  surprised  than  I  was 


263 

wh:n  I  first  suspected  it.  He's  interested  in  theology  a 
bit,  and  he's  interested  in  death  a  bit,  an'  I'm  givin' 
him  pints  on  both." 

"  Points !"  said  Hugh.  '•  He'll  be  like  an  apple 
stuck  with  cloves  when  you  get  done  shoving  points 
into  him. ' 

Nevertheless  strange  things  were  occurring  in  the 
quiet  house  where  David  Winthrop  mourned  for  his 
son  and  sat  waiting  for  death,  and  Tim  Grady  was  in 
part  responsible  for  them.  After  a  few  controversial 
buffets  Tim  had  said  plainly  to  him, 

"  Ye're  wan  o'  the  luckiest  men  that  ever  drew 
breath.  Ye've  never  been  baptized  accordin'  to  yer 
own  sayin1,  an'  now  ye're  on  the  verge  o*  the  grave, 
an*  ye  have  only  to  be  baptized  to  shtep  off  the  earth 
clear  o'  purgatory  sthraight  into  heaven.  I  don't  care 
what  sort  iv  a  life  a  man's  had  whin  he  kin  do  that 
he's  done  as  much  for  himself  as  a  saint  cud.  Whin 
ye're  ready  for  the  priest  say  the  word  an'  I'll  see  to 
it.  There's  no  use  argifiyin'.  Ye're  mind's  med  up 
some  time,  an'  ye  only  have  to  speak." 

The  idea  of  giving  some  completeness  to  his  life 
had  taken  firm  hold  of  Winthrop.  This  world  was 
ended  for  him.  A  bruised  heart  and  a  wretched  body 
were  all  he  had  left  of  fortune.  Into  the  next  world, 
whose  existence  he  accepted,  he  was  carrying  a  soul 
as  wretched  as  the  body  he  left  behind ;  a  soul  bur- 
dened with  the  memory  of  his  lost  son,  and  destined 
to  as  lame  a  course  as  his  earthly  life  had  been.  He 
could  not  bear  that  thought,  and  turned  desperately 
to  religion.  The  sublime  and  definite  promises  of  the 
Church  appealed  to  him  with  irresistible  strength.  To 
d  e  as  free  from  si  a  and  penalty  as  the  babe,  sancti- 


264 

fied  by  the  Body  of  Christ,  and  strengthened  with  the 
holy  oils,  to  enter  upon  eternal  life  in  an  instant,  per- 
fect, sure  of  that  success  denied  him  upon  earth, 
heart  whole,  never  to  know  weariness  again, — it  was 
a  dream  to  inspire  the  dead.  He  believed  long  be- 
fore books  and  Tim  Grady  fixed  it  in  his  soul  He 
hardly  knew  why  he  hesitated  to  seize  the  prize  at 
his  hand,  the  prize  which  made  his  life  a  triumph 
where  men  saw  failure.  Yet  he  hesitated.  Until  one 
midnight  the  reason  of  his  hesitation  was  given  to  him 
in  the  hour  between  half  thought  and  sleep.  His  mis- 
takes, his  blunders,  his  losses  all  through  life  had  come 
from  hesitation,  and  now  he  was  to  blunder  again,  to 
lose  eternity  in  delaying  without  reason.  He  started  up 
in  alarm  wide-awake  to  his  danger,  and  called  his  one 
servant  to  run  to  the  town  hall  with  a  note  for  Tim 
Grady.  Even  now  a  weakness  seized  him,  and  he 
could  not  dress  as  he  intended,  but  lay  back  on  his 
pillow  wondering  with  the  grim  courage  of  a  man  out 
ot  luck  if  death  would  take  him  in  the  night  alone 
and  pass  out  with  his  soul  as  the  priest  entered  the 
door! 

The  priest  and  Hugh  Sullivan  came  in  with  Grady 
and  set  to  work  with  speed  His  passing  fit  of  weak  • 
ness  left  him,  and  he  gave  a  clear  account  of  his 
wishes,  and  a  brief  statement  of  his  faith.  The  three 
sacraments  were  administered  to  him  between  mid- 
night and  morning,  and  he  slept, — with  Grady  at  his 
bedside  and  Hugh  slumbering  in  the  next  room, — 
forever  beyond  the  reach  of  evil  fortune.  Grady 
watched  his  face  with  interest.  At  first  after  the 
priest  had  gone  its  expression  was  one  of  placid  satis- 
faction and  comfort,  but  in  the  gray  light  it  seemed  to 


265 

fake  on  the  hue  of  death.  His  body  lay  still  and 
fixed,  so  that  Tim  grew  alarmed  and  called  him 
gently,  then  touched  and  shook  him,  only  to  see  the 
body  fall  limply  back  into  its  place.  It  looked  like 
death,  but  as  Mr.  Grady  could  see  no  reason  for  this 
sudden  departure  he  made  no  outcry  and  stood  wait- 
ing and  thinking,  and  presently  with  a  loud  sigh  old 
David  came  suddenly  out  of  his  heavy  sleep,  sat  up 
in  the  bed,  stared  about  him  excitedly,  as  if  he  had 
difficulty  in  locating  himself,  and  then  lay  back  on  the 
pillow  with  the  tears  streaming  down  his  face. 

"John  is  dead/'  he  cried  out  so  loudly  that  Hugh 
came  hurrying  in  from  the  next  room,  and  began  to 
soothe  and  comfort  him.  Mr.  Grady  seeing  that 
something  unusual  had  happened — "  may  be  a  temp- 
tation direct  from  the  divil  "—secretly  fingered  his 
beads  in  the  outer  room.  When  the  old  man  had 
quieted  down  he  looked  at  Hugh  sadly  and  said 
again : 

"  John  is  dead,  but  not  by  his  own  hand,  thank 
God !"  His  information  was  accepted  as  a  matter  of 
fact  and  nothing  more  was  said  about  it. 

"  It's  lucky  he  got  the  sacraments  afore  he  wint 
out  of  his  mind,'1  Mr.  Grady  said.  Winthrop  rallied 
however  and  did  not  appear  delirious  or  insane  there- 
after. His  friends  left  him  to  his  housekeeper,  and 
went  back  to  the  work  of  the  fair  now  drawing  to  a 
close  amid  much  excitement.  The  two  days  reserved 
for  the  children  had  passed  without  disaster.  They 
were  the  only  days  when  the  noisy  little  ones 
were  permitted  to  attend  unguarded  by  parents 
or  friends.  They  tired  out  the  officials. 
Every  child  had  a  quarter  to  fpend,  and 


266 

felt  itself  master  of  its  fate.  Nothing  suited  them. 
They  found  the  prices  too  high,  the  candy  not  sweet 
enough,  the  ice  cream  too  cold,  the  ladies  too  "sassy." 
They  refused  to  sign  a  book  or  to  invest  their  money 
without  an  instant  return  of  one  hundred  per  cent. 
They  were  there  for  three  dollars'  worth  of  fun  for 
twenty-five  cents,  and  some  hoped  to  save  five  cents 
on  the  bargain.  They  inspected  the  goods  over  and 
over,  and  protested  against  inferior  articles  on  the 
wheel  of  fortune.  The  ridicule  they  cast  on  eveiy- 
thing  below  their  standard  made  the  ladies  indignant. 
They  found  the  stray  holes  in  the  decorations  an  I 
widened  them,  found  the  loose  tacks  in  the  cedar 
trimmings  and  pulled  them  out ;  the  hungrier  and 
rougher  children  dived  under  the  walls  of  the  restau- 
rant secretly  and  carried  off  cake  remnants  ;  some  of 
them  scraped  the  ice  cream  cans  and  fought  for  the 
privilege  ;  when  they  had  spent  their  money,  littered 
the  hall  with  paper  and  peanut-shells,  and  worked  the 
ladies  into  a  fever,  they  stood  around  and  voted  the 
fair  a  failure  and  a  "  fake."  The  beys  guyed  Robin 
Hood  and  his  cigars  in  the  shooting  gallery,  and  the 
girls  made  remarks  on  the  decorations  Had  not 
Captain  Sullivan,  Mrs.  DeLaunay  the  priest,  and  a 
few  other  public  spirited  and  thoughtful  citizens  given 
them  a  final  course  of  cream,  candy,  grab-bag,  men- 
agerie, minstrel,  shooting,  and  soda  water  they  would 
have  started  a  riot,  and  advertised  the  fair  next  day 
as  a  great  fraud. 

Mrs.  DeLaunay,  who  ever  loved  the  crowd,  was 
inspired  by  the  disorder  they  created ;  Regina  ob- 
jected to  it  and  hid  herself  in  the  restaurant  with  her 
two  pets,  Remi  and  Elise,  well-bred  darlings,  with 


267 

appetites  that  knew  no  limit.  They  appreciated  her 
attentions  and  told  her  all  the  child  'sh  news  of  the 
town  with  comments  on  that  gossip  peculiar  to  grown 
people.  It  interested  Regina  sufficiently  to  rouse 
pleasant  blushes. 

"  You  like  Uncle  Hugh,  don't  you,  Miss  DeLau  • 
nay  ?"  said  Elise  archly,  and  Remi  shouted, 

"Nov  that  isn't  fair,  because  I  never  said  she 
didn't.  Ask  her  the  right  way.  I  said  she  didn't 
like  him  to  marry  him.  We  all  like  him  the  other 
way,  don't  we  ?" 

"  Certainty,"  said  Regina.  "  But  why  do  you  talk 
about  it  at  all,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  Miss  Ransom  she  said  too  ur  teacher  she  thought 
it  was  a  match — " 

"What  do  those  teachers  know  anyway?"  said 
Remi. 

"  She  said  how  in  the  play  everyone  saw  it  was 
going  to  be  a  match,  and  I  asked  mamma,  and  she 
said  if  it  would  be,  then  you'd  be  o  ir  aunt.'' 

"  That  is  what  I'd  like,"  said  Remi,  "  but  Miss  De- 
Launay  has  all  the  say  in  it.  Teachers'  talk  can't 
mnkp  thiroo  tme." 

"  But  is  it  true  by  itself  ?  "  persisted  Elise. 

"  When  you  call  me  aunt  then  you'll  know  it  to  be 
true,"  said  Regina  gently,  and  they  understood  that 
the  happiness  in  store  for  them  was  not  for  conversa- 
tion untfl  a  long  time  had  passed.  The  crowd  of  chil- 
dren, having  now  laid  waste  the  fair,  and  reduced  the 
government  to  a  most  miserable  condition  were  pre- 
paring to  depart  in  triumph,  gorged  with  feasting  and 
laden  with  plunder.  The  fair  was  a  mere  wrecK,  its 
supplies  gone,  its  draperies  wilted  and  torn,  its  de« 


268 

partments  used  up.  The  minstrels,  the  menagerie  and 
the  art  gallery  had  collapsed,  the  fortune-teller  and 
the  grab  bag  girl,  the  Rebecca  of  the  well  and  Robin 
Hood  had  fled  home  to  recuperate  for  the  evening 
performance.  Only  the  children  were  alive  to  the 
joys  of  life  at  a  fair,  and  complained  of  the  clock 
which  had  brought  around  tea  time  so  soon.  They 
had  one  supreme  satisfaction  in  going,  that  peanuts 
and  cream  having  given  out  there  was  no  use  to  stay 
longer.  Hugh  marched  them  to  the  gate  under  the 
eye  of  the  priest,  and  blessed  his  luck  when  the  door 
was  locked  on  the  last  one. 

The  grown  people  were  hardly  less  troublesome  in 
the  end  than  the  children.     Having  set  their  heart  on 
certain  prizes  they  felt  bound  to  win  them.     They 
dreamed  of  them  and  consulted  dream  oracles  on  the 
matter  ;  they  set  mystic  traps  to  prevent  them  going 
to  others  ;  they  speculated  on  the  mystical  value  of 
certain  numbers,  and  put  their  names  to  them  ;  and 
they  spent  a  certain  amount  of  money  besides  to  make 
sure  of  them.     Each  night  of  the  last  three  was  de- 
voted to  naming  the  winners  of  these  gifts,  when  the 
town  hall  became  a  little  Monte  Carlo  for  the  crowd, 
eager  to  see  some  return  for  their  investments.    They 
stood  massed  around  the  platform  where  the  wheel 
turned  out  the  lucky  numbers,  of  all  creeds  and  con- 
ditions,  as  nervous  in  a  quiet  way  as  the  frequenters 
of  Monte  Carlo.     Not  a  few  had  their  theories  and 
plans  for  winning  the  best  and  many  gifts.     The  an- 
nouncement of  winners  was  received  with  various  ex- 
pressions of  dissent  or  approval,  with  groans  from  the 
disappointed,  and  cheers  for  the  poor  widow  who 
won  a  ton  of  coal  or  a  sack  of  flour  ;  rcith  secret 


269 

curses  on  the  luck,  or  on  the  dream  oracles,  or  on  the 
useless  method  ;  with  bitter  determination  to  spend 
no  more  money  on  fair  books  in  the  hope  of  winning 
a  prize.  Mr.  Grady,  who  was  a  Puritan  of  the  most 
advanced  tjpe,  denounced  the  proceedings  like  a  pro- 
phet born  too  soon  amid  a  good-natured  people.  They 
laughed  at  him  but  accepted  most  of  his  arguments. 
The  priest  did  not  mind,  and  seemed  rather  to  like 
Grady' s  hot  opinions  on  all  things  that  are  and  ought 
to  be. 

Both  Grady  and  Sullivan  weie  steady  attendants  at 
old  Winthrop's  bedside.  The  story  of  his  baptism  was 
now  common  and  disturbed  no  prejudices,  as  in  his 
life  he  had  never  professsed  belief  in  any  sect  and  had 
railed  at  most  of  them.  The  more  intense  believers 
of  the  town  were  willing  an  old  broken  down  skeptic 
should  take  to  idols  on  his  deathbed,  while  the  gen- 
erous ones  rejoiced  at  his  acceptance  of  faith  at  the 
last  moment.  Until  his  weakness  had  increased  to 
such  a  degree  that  speaking  became  sometimes  an 
effort  he  did  not  allude  to  the  delirium  of  his  baptism 
mornirg,  but  he  asked  Hugh  regularly  if  he  had 
received  word  of  John.  Then  at  the  end  he  spoke 

"It's  six  days  now  since  he  died,  and  surely  there 
will  be  news.  Of  course  it  took  sometime  to  find  the 
body,  and  strangers  might  not  know  right  away  where 
to  send  word." 

Seeing  Hugh  look  at  him  curiously  he  added : 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  John  was  dead  ?" 

"  You  did." 

"  Of  course  you  didn't  believe  it.  Ah,  God  is  good, 
to  us  fools  in  particular  that  denied  Him  all  our  lives. 
John  is  dead,  drowned  by  accident,  for  he  would  never 


270 

break  his  word  to  me  -  and  what's  more  I  believe 
God  was  merciful  to  him  at  the  last  as  to  me.  I'll 
tell  it  to  you,  Sullivan,  for  you  were  the  one  friend 
that  stuck  to  him.  You  know  how  the  dread  of  his 
death  hung  over  me  these  months  back.  If  ever  a 
man  prayed  to  avert  it,  I  did.  You  never  thought  of 
praying  for  him,  I'll  bet." 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  said  Hugh  frankly. 

"  It  takes  a  father  to  remember  it.  I  didn't  know 
how  to  pray  of  course,  but  I  did  my  best.  I  made 
the  offer  of  my  own  miserable  life  for  his.  I  asked 
only  that  he  might  die  of  a  fever,  or  in  any  way  but 
by  suicide.  When  I  began  to  think  of  a  life  after 
this,  and  began  to  believe  in  the  Church  I  added  a 
prayer  for  his  soul  that  at  least  it  might  not  be  lost. 
I  made  the  sacrifice  here  -  if  such  a  thing  was  sen- 
sible and  right — of  his  companionship  in  the  next 
world,  could  he  only  be  saved.  Was  that  correct  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Hugh  dubiously. 

"  You  don't  know  enough  about  religion,  Hugh," 
said  old  David  sharply.  "  You've  never  given  me  a 
direct  answer  to  a  question  yet." 

'•Outside  of  the  mere  catechism  I'm  lost,"  said 
Hugh  humbly,  but  with  humor  he  added,  "  You  can't 
expect  a  Lake  Champlain  pilot  to  know  all  about  the 
Hudson  can  you?" 

"  No,  of  course  not.  Well,  I  made  the  sacrifice 
anyway.  What  a  church  for  sacrifices  ours  is.  I 
was  willing  to  stay  in  purgatory  a  thousand  years  to 
save  that  boy.  The  night  I  was  baptized  something 
happened.  After  I  received  the  sacraments  I  fell 
into  a  sleep.  It  was  Like  a  sleep,  but  I  was  wide 
awake  as  I  am  now.  I  could  swear  to  that.  I  just 


271 

passed  from  this  room  to  a  place  out  West  some- 
where, the  worst  looking  country  I  ever  saw,  all  sand 
or  mud  or  rock.  A  big  river  lan  through  it  like  mad, 
boiling  and  foaming,  and  not  a  house  in  sight.  I  said 
to  myself, 

"'  Winthrop,  what  in— excuse  me,  Hugh— I  said 
what  are  you  doing  here  ?' 

"And  then  I  saw  hanging  to  a  log  in  the  mid- 
dle of  that  terrible  river  my  boy,  John  Wimthrop, 
hanging  to  it  for  dear  life,  the  life  he  never  cared 
much  for.  He  was  played  out,  and  I  saw  he  couldn't 
hold  on  very  long.  I  couldn't  help  him,  but  I  got  on 
the  log  somehow  and  cried  out : 

"'John,  I'm  heie.' 

"  He  opened  his  eyes,  saw  me  and  smiled,  and  he 
said : 

"  Dad,  it's  all  up  with  us.  It  was  an  accident.  I 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Won't  you  beheve  that  ?" 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  I.  "  I  thank  God  it's  not  sui- 
cide. I'm  going  too,  and  I've  keen  baptized  a  Catho- 
lic like  Hugh  SulLvan.  John,  since  we're  going  to- 
gether let  me  baptize  you.  Let  us  both  go  before 
God  like  decent  men,  not  like  tramps.  Baptism  will 
make  the  way  clear  for  you.  I'll  join  you  soon.  What 
do  you  say  ?  " 

"  I'm  willing,  dad,"  he  said  opening  his  eyes  again. 
"  I've  been  thinking  things  all  night,  and  if  it's  not  too 
late " 

"  Do  you  believe  ?  "  I  shouted. 

"  I  believe  whatever  Hugh  believed,"  he  said. 

"  Are  you  sorry  for  all  your  sins." 

"  I'm  sorry,  dad." 

Then  I  tooV  my  hands  full  of  water  and  dashed  it 


272 

on  his  face  and  baptized  him,  and  the  next  minute  he 
let  go  of  the  log  and  never  came  up  again,  and  I  was 
back  in  the  room  here,  crying  like  a  woman  as  I  had 
a  right  to  I  couldn't  epeak  of  it  right  away,  lor  my 
heart  was  broken  to  think  my  clever  boy  should  come 
to  such  an  end.  But  I  know  now  it  was  all  for  the 
best.  I  am  as  certain  of  his  baptism  as  of  my  own. 
What  do  you  think  of  it,  Hugh  Sullivan  ?" 

"  D.d  you  tell  the  priest  of  it,"  said  Hugh. 

''  No.     But  1  will  if  you  say  so." 

'•  I  believe  with  you,:)  said  Sullivan  warmly,  "  that 
John  died  happily.  It's  a  wonderful  story." 

"  What  did  we  ever  do,'  cried  the  old  man,  "  to 
have  such  favors  showered  upon  us  ?  " 

"  That's  God's  way,"  the  Captain  answered.  "I  sup 
pose  you  did  the  best  you  could,  your  hearts  were 
right,  and  so  He  saved  you  in  His  own  way.  You 
must  tell  the  story  to  Grady.  It  will  please  him  more 
than  anything." 

But  Winthrop  was  never  more  able  to  speak  even 
his  wants  to  those  about  him.  Once  he  asked  feebly, 

'•Is  everything  settled  about  that  DeLaunay  girl?' 
and  when  John  gravely  answered  that  their  marriage 
date  was  fixed  a  spasm  of  anguish  pinched  his  face;  but 
it  gave  way  at  once  to  a  smile  of  profound  peace.  His 
boy  was  happier  at  that  moment  than  any  bridegroom. 
He  never  failed  to  ask  for  news  of  John's  death,  but 
none  came  and  Hugh  felt  ashamed  for  a  moment  of  the 
credence  he  had  given  to  the  old  man's  vision.  Yet 
when  on  the  last  night  of  the  fair  a  telegram  was 
handed  to  him  with  the  brief  statement  ot  John  Win- 
throp's  death  by  accidental  drowinng  on  tnat  veiy 
midnight  old  David  had  received  the  sacraments,  the 


273 

Captain  was  deeply  moved.  He  telegraphed  instruc- 
tions for  the  forwarding  of  the  body,  and  deserted  the 
fair  to  bring  the  news  to  the  dying  father.  The  old 
man  was  no  more  than  able  to  hear  the  telegram  read 
and  to  learn  that  his  son's  body  would  repose  by  his 
side  in  Saranac  graveyard.  Tim  Grady  left  his  con- 
test to  take  care  of  itself  when  a  note  warned  him  of 
Winthrop's  agony.  With  the  two  faithful  friends  at 
his  side  the  old  man  passed  away  near  midnight  just 
as  the  crunching  of  the  snow  and  the  laughing  voices 
in  the  street  announced  the  closing  of  the  fair.  Tim 
went  out  to  get  the  news  of  the  contest  and  the  re- 
ceipts. 

"  Won  with  a  hundred  dollars  to  spare,"  was  the 
story  cf  Tim's  victory. 

"  Receipts  almost  two  thousand,"  was  the  result  of 
Mrs.  DeLaunay's  management. 

"  It  was  a  great  fair  an'  no  mishtake,"  said  Tim,  as 
he  went  back  to  the  room  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
AMEDEE'S  DAUGHTER. 

Once  in  a  while  striking  incidents  will  cluster  thick 
in  the  history  of  a  soul,  or  a  group,  or  a  town,  and 
make  life  exciting  for  months  or  years  ;  then  sudden- 
ly ending  in  a  climax  of  mingled  tears  and  joy,  the 
old  happy  routine  resumes  its  place,  and  life  seems 
to  pause  ;  as  if  a  brave  troop  on  the  march  through  a 
rugged  wilderness  came  suddenly  on  a  balmy  clearing 
by  a  river ;  and  then  off  with  arms  and  knapsacks,  and 
out  with  banjo  and  harmonica  around  the  steaming 
mess-kettle,  as  if  war  had  never  been  and  peace  must 


274 

be  forever.  Saranac  found  itself  in  the  clearing  that 
summer,  when  the  dead  were  buried  and  the  lovers 
had  married,  and  ail  the  excitement  stirred  un  by  the 
pilot's  son  had  died  away.  Sweet  peace  wandered 
through  the  ripening  fields,  and  her  fragrant  breath 
scented  the  sunshine.  The  quiet  of  Saranac  was  like 
the  quiet  of  the  siesta  hours  in  Italy,  glowing  and 
warm,  full  of  breathings,  human  beings  absent  from 
the  ways  and  porches  ;  they  were  all  in  the  fields  reap- 
ing, or  afloat  in  the  Champlain  steamers  and  canal- 
boats  making  money  for  the  long  and  cruel  winter. 

It  was  Sunday  aiternoon  and  Vespers  was  over  in 
the  church.  The  people  had  returned  home  save  the 
few  that  lingered  to  pray  in  the  churchyard.  Mrs. 
Sullivan  knelt  at  the  foot  of  the  Sullivan  plot  and 
tried  to  remember  the  souls  whose  bodies  lay  in  it, 
but  with  Tim  Grady  entangling  himself  and  Captain 
LaRoche  in  a  tape  measure,  under  her  eyes,  and 
talking  as  only  Tim  could  talk  anywhere,  she  was 
forced  to  defer  her  prayers. 

*'  Musha,  thin,  Tim,"  said  she,  "  but  yer  tongue  is 
longer  than  yer  measure.  There's  no  end  to  it.  An 
it's  wondherin'  I  am  if  there's  anny  single  place  in  the 
whole  world  where  ye're  not  heard." 

"  There  is  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Grady  promptly,  an  i 
he  pointed  to  the  nearest  grave.  Mrs.  Sullivan 
laughed. 

"  There's  wan  blessin'  thin,"  she  said,  "for  thim 
that  die  in  Saranac.  What's  throublin'  ye  I  dunno  ?  ' 

"  I  tould  LaRoche  here,  an'  I  tould  the  priest  whin 
they  dug  Amedee's  grave  that  it  was  six  inches  over 
the  line.  They  wouldn't  belave  me  thin,  an'  now  I've 
just  proved  it  to  'im." 


275 

"  Ye  re  a  great  ouM  man  for  provin'  to  be  sure. 
An'  a  nice  business  it  is  to  be  measurin'  graves  whin 
waitin'  for  a  christenin'.  But  ye  have  no  more  respect 
for  the  baby  jist  bora  than  ye  had  for  her  father. 
Sure  there's  lots  o'  time  for  the  grave  wtdout  havin'  it 
wid  yer  roeals." 

"  I'll  not  dispute  wid  ye,  ma'am.'"  sai  \  Tim  loftily. 
"  I'll  have  words  wid  none  on  the  day  Amedee's  daugh- 
ter is  to  be  chrishened.  I  shtud  for  her  father,  an' 
I'm  goin'  to  be  prisint  at  her  baptism  wid  peace  an' 
good  will  to  all  min,  an'  all  ould  wimmin'.  I'm 
happy.  So  is  LaRocbe.  He's  downed  ould  Mc- 
Carthy, another  oald  woman.  The  child  gets  one 
half  the  property  of  her  father." 

The  pilot  chuckled,  for  the  loss  of  that  property  to 
the  McCarthys  had  angered  him  In  her  curiosity 
to  know  more  about  the  will  Mrs.  Su'livan  forgot  the 
vexatious  remarks  of  Mr.  Grady. 

"  So  the  baby  gets  one-half,"  she  said,  "  an'  that 
manes  all,  for  the  mother  '11  lave  her  everything,  o' 
coorse ;  an'  was  that  the  way  Amedee  left  it  in  his 
will?" 

'•A'l  to  the  wife  if  no  child  was  born.  Half  to  the 
child  if  it  came,  an'  Captain  Sullivan,  yer  own  son,  to 
be  executor  wid  the  mother.  An'  ould  McCarthy's 
heart's  broke,  an'  this  man  can't  keep  from  laughin'. 
There's  no  raison  in  aither  of  'em,  for  in  any  case 
there  was  no  money  in  it  for  the  two  ould  fools.  Bat 
that's  the  way  o'  the  world  to  fight  like  murther  over 
what  doesn't  belong  to  'em,  an'  thin  see  a  bit  of  a 
baby  walk  in  an'  take  away  the  property.  Isn't  that 
the  Captain  comin'  now  I  wondher." 

Two  children  breathless  rushed  up  to  tell  grandma 


276 

that  the  procession   was   coming,   and   dashed   back 
again  to  secure  the  best  places  in  the  vestry. 

*'  That  b'y,  Remi,  is  growin',"  said  Mr.  Grady. 

"What  else  has  he  to  do?"  sad  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

"  Thim  that  has  less  don't  do  it,  ma'am,"  said  Tim. 

"  'T  would  do  ye  good,"  Mrs.  Sullivan  said,  "  to 
hear  Mrs.  McCarthy  and  Madame  La  Roche  at  it  last 
Sunday  about  the  baptism.  Nothin1  ud  do  Madame 
but  the  child  ud  be  taken  to  the  church  on  the  spot, 
an'  it  only  a  day  ould  wid  the  breath  hardly  fixed  in 
it.  That  was  Frinch  style,  o'  coo  se,  an'  ould  Me 
Carthy  backed  her  up  in  it,  for  the  poor  man  was 
brought  up  that  way,  an'  can't  help  it.  But  Mrs. 
M  Carthy  shtud  her  ground  in  the  face  o'  thim  all, 
an'  named  to  day  for  the  christenin',  an'  it's  to  be 
named  Regina  after  the  godmother,  an'  a  mighty 
purty,  sollum  kind  of  a  name  it  is.'' 

"There's  only  wan  lady  in  the  to<va  ever  made  to 
wear  such  a  name,"  said  Mr.  Grady.  '-It  manes  a 
queen,  an'  it's  little  I  thought  sheM  be  so  foolish  as 
to  put  such  an  ordinary  commonplace  name  as  Sulli- 
van behind  it." 

"  That's  roe  own  thought,"  said  the  old  lady. 
'•  But  whin  I  did  it  mese  f  that  was  born  in  a  sinsible 
country,  what  can  you  expe:t  from  a  Saranac  girl/' 

Two  carriages  now  drove  up  in  state  to  the  vestry- 
door.  Out  of  the  first  stepped  Monsieur  McCarthy, 
and  the  two  grandmothers,  Mrs.  McCarthy  carrying 
the  little  candidate  for  baptism  with  all  the  dignity 
and  haughtiness  suited  to  a  lady  of  her  rank,  at.d 
rather  ignoring  Madame  whose  eyes  never  left  the 
child. 

Out  of  the  other  stepped  Regina  and  her  husband, 


looking  as  happy  and  ordinary  as  a  newly  married 
pair  can  look  in  the  presence  of  their  friends.  No 
shadows  from  John  Winthrop's  grave  lay  on  Regina's 
pathway.  Captain  Sullivan  had  take  a  pains  to  pre- 
vent that  disaster.  She  never  learned  that  the  young 
man  had  resolved  to  die  rather  than  live  without  her; 
so  that  her  only  regret  about  him  was  that  he  had 
died  an  untimely  death.  The  Captain  was  in  his 
uniform,  which  Regina  knew  always  softened  the  ab- 
ruptness of  his  manner  and  changed  the  inflections  of 
his  speech  for  the  better.  She  insisted  on  his  wear- 
ing it  whenever  etiquette  permitted,  declaring  that 
her  most  elegant  to  lets  still  looked  subdued  in  its 
brightness.  She  was  educating  him  unawares  out  of 
his  fondness  for  kitchen  epithets  and  his  bluntness. 
He  had  never  been  taught  the  dependence  of  every- 
thing in  this  world  upon  a  hundred  other  things,  and 
so  spoke  of  hemp  rope  in  the  hearing  of  those  whose 
ancestors  had  been  hanged.  He  accepted  her  guid- 
ance and  training  with  the  docility  of  a  sailor  ashore, 
and  the  good-natured  taunt  that  she  could  never 
teach  him  how  to  run  a  ship.  Three  months  of  mar- 
ried life  had  not  lessened  her  esteem  for  him.  Even 
Mr.  Gndy  could  read  theTrespect  for  Hugh  that  be- 
trayed itself  in  her  manner.  He  would  always  be 
her  superior  in  simplicity  and  candor,  in  fidelity  and 
faith.  He  kne*v  nothing  of  casuistry.  In  the  su- 
preme moments  of  life  he  would  be  as  unconsciously 
a  hero  as  on  that  night  when  the  steamer  went  ashore 
on  the  west  rocks  of  Lake  Champlain  ;  an;l  Regina 
said  to  herself  regularly  that  she  would  always  love 
him  as  she  did  ihen. 

They  all  stood  before  the  priest  in  the  vestry,  the 


278 

little  crowd  gazing  with  delight  at  the  beautiful  god 
mother  whose  presence  shed  a  glory  there.  Madame 
held  the  baby,  and  the  oiher  relatives  and  friends 
stood  in  the  background.  Little  Regina  accepted 
touch  and  blessing,  salt,  spittle,  sacred  oil 
and  baptismal  water  with  perfect  indifftr 
ence ;  squeezed  the  fingers  of  her  sponsors, 
tugged  at  the  wiping  cloths  and  went  into  rapt- 
ures over  the  burning  candle.  Madame  looked 
anxiously  at  the  matrons,  who  shook  their  heads 
gravely.  Then  the  last  prayer  was  said,  the  candle 
extinguished,  and  the  children,  who  had  crowded 
about  to  see  the  ceremony,  banished.  Still  the  baby 
remained  indifferent  ar.d  smiling,  and  Madame  grew 
more  grave ;  but  at  the  very  last,  as  if  her  guardian 
angel  had  pinched  her  slyly,  little  Regina  puckered  her 
face  and  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears  and  screamings 
pleasant  to  hear.  Then  the  matrons  smiled  and 
laughed  and  Mrs.  Sullivan  in  her  stateliest  language 
congratulated  the  baby's  relatives.  The  baby  that 
cried  at  its  own  baptism  was  safe  from  sickness  and 
death  for  at  least  a  year,  while  the  baby  that  did  not 
would  never  see  its  first  birthday  The  priest  wrote 
down  the  proper  things  in  the  register,  and  said  with 
a  sigh, 

"  Poor  Amedee !  " 

Then  he  called  over  the  sponsors  to  show  them  a 
circumstance.  Baptisms,  marriages,  and  deaths  were 
rare  in  Saranac.  On  one  page  c  f  the  register  were  seven 
entries  in  this  order :  the  burial  of  Amedee,  the  baptism 
of  David  Winthrop,  the  burial  of  the  two  Winthrops, 
the  baptism  of  Regina,  her  marriage  with  Captain 
Sullivan,  and  the  baptism  ot  Amedee's  daughter. 


They  found  it  wonderful.  It  was  an  official  telling  of 
the  whole  story  told  at  length  in  this  book,  and  so  it 
would  go  down  to  Saranac  posterity.  But  who  would 
be  able  to  tell  a  century  hen«~e  how  curiously  and  tragi- 
cally these  different  entries  blended,  and  what  a  ro- 
mance lay  behind  them  !  Amid  the  chattering  and 
congratulations  and  the  shrieks  of  little  Regina  the 
party  broke  up.  The  carriages  rolled  away  to  the 
ringing  of  a  joy  bell  in  the  church  tower,  as  was  proper 
at  a  baptsm.  The  children  satisfied  with  one  novel- 
ty rushed  off  to  find  others.  The  old  women  hastened 
home  for  Sunday  tea,  and  the  old  men  remained  a 
little  longer  to  chat  with  the  priest.  They  in  turn 
drifted  off,  followed  by  the  pious  souls  who  haunted 
the  church  until  the  sexton's  patience  was  exhausted. 
Then  the  Ange!us  rang  out  for  a  few  minutes,  the 
church  doors  w^re  locked,  and  the  impatient  sexton 
slipped  away  down  the  road  fearful  lest  the  priest 
should  cl'p  another  minute  from  bis  night  off. 

The  priest  was  lift  alone  saying  his  office  as  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  pathway  beside  the  church. 
The  low  sun  was  casting  long  shadows  over  the  plain, 
and  the  gray  night  began  to  rise  in  the  East.  Now  he 
could  see  the  figures  of  his  people  fading  down  the 
road  that  led  to  the  village  ;  so  would  they  all  vanish 
one  by  one  from  the  ways  of  the  town  and  all  the 
ways  of  earth.  When  he  turned  the  graveyard  lay 
before  him,  and  as  he  prayed  he  remembered  many  a 
poor  creature  lying  there  once  as  lull  of  life  as  these 
who  had  just  left  him.  And  so  he  walked  and  prayed, 
now  facing  the  living,  now  facing  the  dead,  mindful 
of  both,  feeling  more  keenly  than  usual  the  little 
distance  between  them,  and  sad  that  death  must  be 


280 

the  end  of  everything.  Then  the  sun  disappeared, 
and  the  darkness  came  on,  and  the  priest  went  away 
to  his  tea  and  his  books.  Saranac,  its  living  and 
dead,  were  left  in  silence  and  night  I 


[THE  END.] 


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